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Sonnets  and  Lyrics 


G.    J^U^  WyLM 


H  eiiry  I'ayi  ci;  Jr.  ,v  C  o.  C  b.ic  ago 


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Sonnets  and  Lyrics 


BY 


R.  E.  Lee  Gibson 


Louisville 
John  P.   Morton  &  Company 

MDCCCCI 


Copyrighted  by  R.  E.  Lee  Gibson 
1901 


^5' 3 


To 

The  Distinguished  Poet 
Madison  Cawein. 


IvlS^SSll 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Autobiographical i 

Announcement 2 

Poetarum  Dolores 3 

Night 4 

Deep  in  the  Forest 5 

The  Naiad .  6 

Witchcraft 7 

The  Duel 8 

« '  The  Lady  of  Shalott " 9 

Colonial 10 

Severn  at  Keats'  Grave 11 

On  a  Picture  of  « '  Satyr  and  Nymphs  " 12 

Tyranny 13 

Job    14 

« «  Bayou  Folk  " 15 

Mistletoe  and  Oak 16 

Funereal 17 

The  Pioneer 18 


Contents. 


PAGE 


Bagdad 19 

Landscapes 20 

Ambition 21 

Life 22 

Kipling 23 

»«  Another  Story  " 24 

Reveries 25 

Death 26 

Evening 27 

The  Crucifixion 28 

Fate 29 

Marcaria 30 

Mansions  Beautiful 31 

Conquest    32 

Paul  and  Virginia 33 

« '  Be  Not  Afraid  "   34 

An  Indian  Legend 3  5-3  8 

A  Night's  Dream 39-4 1 

The  Flower  Girl 42-44 

From  the  Arabian  Nights 45-46 

A  Minstrel's  Song  in  Ossian 47-48 

The  Desolation  at  Bal-Clutha 49-5 1 

Ossian's  Elegy  on  Fingal,  the  Fallen 52-53 


Contents. 


PAGE 


Time  and  Grief 54-56 

Perfect  Peace 57-59 

A  Lyric  of  the  Hazel-nut  Patch 60-62 

Requiem 63-67 

The  Phantom  Lighthouse 68-70 

A  Mosaic  from  the  Psalms 71-72 

The  Golden  Rod   73-75 

Come,  Fill  up  the  Pipe    76-77 

Beauty  in  Decay 78-79 

Giants 80 

To  Madison  Cawein 81-83 

Feast  of  Shells — from  Ossian 84-87 

The  Battle — In  Ossian 88-92 

Fingal's  Grave 93-95 

Enchantment 96-97 

««  Absence  can  not  Conquer  Love  " 98 

Song 99-100 

An  August  Day 101-102 

In  the  Greenwood 103—104 

The  Moccasin 105 

Jack  Sheppard 106-107 

An  Unseasonable  Song 108-109 

Nightfall 1 10 


Contents. 


PAGE 


In  a  Copy  of  Bloomfield's  Poems iii 

Omar  Khayyam 112 

Quatrains 1 13-1 1 6 

The  Healer 117 

In  Pace 118-119 

The  Tempest 120 

iEsop  on  the  Frog 121 

Alette 1 22-123 

The  Unrealized 124 

The  Landing  at  San  Salvador 125-126 


TO  MADISON  CA1VEIN. 

JT^  OET,  _your  hand  has  plucked  the  fairest  flowers 
-*•  In  all  Castalia  ;  from  the  clearest  rill 

Of  Helicon,  your  soul  has  drunk  its  fill ; 
Your  eyes  have  seen  Parnassus;  there  are  hours, 
Wherein  you've  wandered  'mid  the  brightest  bowers 

Of  Arcady  ;  subservient  to  your  will. 

Dreams  throng  about  you,  and  sweet  thoughts  that  thrill 
The  Heart,  are  'wakened  by  your  magic  powers. 
The  beauty  of  your  verses  even  now 

With  ecstasy  my  happy  heart  has  swayed. 
And  left  me  wondering  if  beneath  a  bough. 

In  some  deep  forest  where  perchance  you  strayed. 
You  had  met  Tan, — old  Pan,  who  taught  you  how 

The  golden  music  of  his  flute  was  made. 

St.  Louis,  Mo. 


SONNETS   AND   LYRICS. 
I. 

AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. 

AN  arch-contriver  of  sweet  phrase,  I  gain 
^     An  entrance  to  the  wonderlands  of  song ; 
To  me  the  happy  faculties  belong 
The  shining  peaks  of  Pindus  to  attain. 
A  glad  sojourner  in  that  fair  domain, 

Around  me  oft  celestial  fancies  throng, 
And  often-times  I  seem  to  drift  along. 
Like  misty  Danae  in  a  golden  rain  ! 
For  once  upon  a  time,  from  fable-lands. 

Came  forth  the  volant  Muses,  lily-fair, 
With  garlands  trailing  from  their  glowing  hands, 
And  scattering  fragrance  in  the  sparkling  air; 
They  found  me  musing,  and  at  their  commands. 
The  laurel-wreath  was  braided  'round  my  hair. 


II. 


ANNOUNCEMENT. 

SCORN  not  to  count  me  as  one  poet  more, 
Critic,  for  though  I  sing  a  lowly  song, 
My  voice  is  sweet  with  promise,  and,  ere  long. 
May  well  be  burdened  with  the  Muse's  lore. 

And  though  indeed  I  may  not  hope  to  soar 
On  skylark  wings,  nor  on  the  pinions  strong 
Of  eagles  sweep,  yet  forth  amid  the  throng 
Of  humbler  birds  my  plaintive   notes  I'll  pour. 

One  of  the  songsters  of  the  forest  singing, 

Simple  my  strains,  and  yet  with  power  to  bless  ; 

One  of  the  wild-flowers  in  the  woodland  springing, 
Modest  my  garb,  yet  fragrance  I  possess  ; 

One  of  the  bees  about  the  musk-rose  clinging. 
Lowly  am  I,  but  poet  none  the  less. 


III. 

POETARUM  DOLORES. 

THOU  who  wouldst  venture   for   the   flowers  of   song 
On  far  Euterpean  heights,  O  bear  in  mind, 

Fate  to  our  gentle  race  was  never  kind; 
Much  have  we  borne  of  obloquy  and  wrong. 
What  tragic  memories  in  our  annals  throng  ! 

Tasso  in  madness  to  a  cell  consigned; 

Dante  in  exile;    Homer  old  and  blind; 
And  Petrarch  sorrowful  his  whole  life  long. 
As  Enna's  queen,  within  a  flowery  glade. 

Weaving  her  anadem  in  quiet  bliss, 
Was  carried  to  an  underworld  of  shade, 

In  the  fell  clutches  of  the  demon  Dis, 
Twining  our  garlands  that  shall  never  fade. 

We,  too,  are  gathered  to  Woe's  dark  abyss. 


IV. 

NIGHT. 

RED -BREASTED  eve  has  perch'd  against  the  west, 
Low  letting  sink  her  ebon  pinion  —  night ; 

Each  floweret  shuts  its  fragile  blossom  tight, 
And  with  bowed  head  is  zephyr-lulled  to  rest. 
The  sleepy  bird  flits  twittering  to  its  nest ; 

Athwart  the  gloom  an  owlet  takes  its  flight; 

The  moon,  a  spectre,  ghastly,  grim  and  white. 
Above  the  hill-tops  thrusts  her  sombre  crest. 
My  heart  turns  sick ;    I  lift  it  up  and  pray. 

And  all  its  ominous  fancies  routed  are  ; 
««Thou  art,  O  Night,  far  loveHer  than  Day," 

I  cry,  as  on  my  vision  breaks  a  star, 
Betok'ning  this  :    Who  turns  to  Heaven  alway 

Shall  see,  howe'er  the  darkness,  light  afar  ! 


DEEP  IN  THE  FOREST. 

UPON  a  time,  beneath  these  forest  boughs, 
Perchance  the  wood-nymph  sported ;  it  may  be 

That  faun  and  satyr,   by  this  ancient  tree, 
Were  wont  of  old  to  revel  and  carouse. 
Or  Dian  here  was  haply  wont  to  drowse 

Under  the  shade;    a  dryad,  blithe  and  free, 

Once  may  have  frolick'd,  and  with  shouts  of  glee. 
Twined  here  with  garlands  her  effulgent  brows. 
This  quiet  wood ;   this  space  of  shade  and  shine ; 

Haunted  of  bird  and  bee,  where  no  god  strays. 
Where  solitude  has  built  her  secret  shrine, 

Lures  me  to  wander  'mid  its  leafy  ways. 
And  hear  the  wind  through  rustling  branch  and  vine. 

Dirge  the  lost  glory  of  those  bygone  days. 


VI. 

THE  NAIAD. 

AH  me,  the  naiad  in  the  purHng  brook, 
■     Disporting,   borne  upon  its  rippHng  breast, 

Or  couched  at  ease  amid  some  ferny  nest. 
Is  seen  no  more ;    for  though  we  lean  and  look, 
Searching  with  care  in  every  secret  nook 

For  the  nymph's  covert,  'tis  a  futile  quest; 

These  lovely  beings,  it  must  be  confessed. 
Have  in  these  days  their  olden  haunts  forsook. 
They  have  departed  from  our  streams  for  good. 

As  have  the  oreads  from  the  knoll  away, 
Or  as  the  hamadryads  from  the  wood, 

Leaving  no  trace  of  their  romantic  stay  ; 
And  where  they  swam,   amid  the  crystal  flood. 

We  now  but  see  the  silvery  trout  at  play. 


VII. 

WITCHCRAFT. 

DID  not  wise  Mather,   in  old  Salem  days, 
Believe  in  witchcraft  ?      People  then  were  known 

To  shun  their  fellows,   and  go  forth   alone 

And  cast  their  lot  with  Satan's.      By  the  blaze 
Of  midnight  fagots,   from  the  curious  gaze 

Of  mortals  hid,   they  made  his  skill  their  own. 

How  could  they  else  upon  the  winds  have  flown. 

Or  in  the  air  have  walked  upon  their  ways  ? 
I  do  believe  a  remnant  of  that  art, 

From  earliest  ages  has  been  handed  down  ; 

That  Sylvia  has  it  ;   that  her  wiles  impart 
Havoc  like  that  which  spread  in  Salem  town  ; 

For  with  a  smile  she  stole  away  my  heart, 

Only  to  crush  it  with  a  cruel  frown. 


VIII. 

THE  DUEL. 

THIS  is  the  spot;    the  shadow  of  the  wood, 
In  immemorial  twilight  shrouds   the  place, 
Now  as  of  old,   when  arm'd  and  face  to  face, 
Here  in  the  dawn  sworn  enemies  once  stood. 

Haply  his  chances,  whether  ill  or  good, 

Each  weighed ;    and  calmly  for  a  moment's  space 
Looked  on  his  rival,   with  nor  sign  nor  trace 
Of  fear  depicted  in  his  mien  or  mood. 

Then  while  a  kerchief  fluttered  to  the  ground, 
And  shots  rang  out,  —  and  by  a  crimson  stain 
The  earth  was  sullied  for  a  space  around, 

A  fair  girl  came,   and  with  a  cry  of  pain. 

Stood  as  bewildered  by  the  flash  and  sound. 
And  swooning  fell  where  lay  her  lover  slain. 


IX. 

«'THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT." 

PERCHANCE  a  fragment  of  the  poet's  rhyme 
Came  in  my  sleep  :    and,  in  a  region  dim, 
Fragrant  with  barley,   by  a  river's  brim, 
I  dreamed  I  wandered,   in  a  distant  clime. 
There  I  was  conscious  of  the  golden  prime 

Of  good  King  Arthur ;  and  I  rode  with  him  ; 
Once  at  a  tourney  'neath  the  turrets  grim 
Of  Camelot,  we  whiled  away  the  time. 
Again,   I  fancied  that  I  saw  appear 

Pale  dames  of  Brittany  who  drooped  forlorn. 
And  armored  knights  who  courteously  drew  near ; 

And  next  I  witnessed,   ere  I  woke  at  morn, 
Borne  down  the  tide,  before  my  dreaming  eye, 
The  Fairy  Lady  of  Shalott  drift  by. 


X. 

COLONIAL. 

THE  old  house,   many-gabled,   far  withdrawn 
From  the  broad  highway,  and  despoiled  with  age, 
Torn   by  the  summer's  wrath,   the    winter's  rage. 
Still  stands  austere  upon  the  spacious  lawn. 
In  other  days,  the  couriers  here  at  dawn 

Rode  like  the  wind,   by  word  or  written  page 
Announcing  tidings  from  Burgoyne  or  Gage, 
Or  with  Cornwallis  how  the  day  had  gone. 
Time,  like  a  Tory,  loyal  to  the  crown, 

As  loath  to  leave,   seems  fondly  here  to  cling  ; 
It  were  no  marvel  though  a  ghost  strode  down, 
Among  the  cedars,   where  the  wildbirds    sing. 
In  buckled  shoon,   cocked  hat,   and  velvet  gown. 

Firm  in  the  faith  that  George  the  Third  is  king. 


ID 


XI. 

SEVERN  AT  KEATS'  GRAVE. 

DUTY  could  prompt  no  more,  nor  love  suggest 
Aught  for  his  comfort  we  had  left  undone, 
Who  watched  the  sinking  of  his  life's  young  sun, 
And  felt  the  presence  of  his  night  of  rest. 
And  though  our  tears  our  poignant  grief  expressed, 
We  nursed  the  knowledge  of  a  triumph  won, 
That  somewhere,  though  his  earthly  race  was  run, 
His  soul  sped  onward  in  life's  happier  quest. 
Broken  in  spirit  and  constrained  to  roam. 

Searching  for  life,   the  youthful  poet  came. 
And  in  the  haven  of  a  Roman  home 

Yielded  his  breath :    forevermore  his  name, 
Written  in  water,  like  the  wave-flung  foam. 
Shall  ride  the  billows  of  enduring  fame. 


XII.  ^ 


ON  A  PICTURE  OF   ^^  SATYR  AND  NYMPHS. 

PAUSE  but  an  instant,   for  the  briefest  glance, 
Satyr,   that  watchest  'midst  Arcadian  hills, 
Blithe  nymphs  disporting  by  the  crystal  rills, 
With  kirtles  flowing  in  the  mazy  dance ; 
Risk  not  thy  safety  by  a  rash  advance, 

Nor  tempt  too  long  the  music  that  distills 
Its  fluted  accents  'mongst  the  daffodils, 
Lest  its  spell  plunge  thee  in  some  dreadful  trance. 
One  moment  only  stay  thy  steps  and  see  ; 

Thou  art  not  shod  with  helplessness  like  us. 
But  hoofed  and  nimble  canst  evade  the  snare  ; 

We  mortals,  falling  into  danger  thus, 
Having  no  satyr  limbs  wherewith  to  flee, 

Were  lured  to  madness  by  a  scene  so  fair. 


13 


V 


XIII. 
TYRANNY. 


WOULD  it  were  happiness,  and  not  sweet  pain, 
Which  Love  involves  the  Heart  in  ;  leaving  out 
The  leaden  links  of    agony  and  doubt, 
Would  that  he  bound  us  with  a  lighter  chain. 

Or,  since  in  bondage  we  must  needs  remain, 

Slaves  to  his  will, — why  should  he  forge  about 
The  Heart  a  gyve  too  cumbersome  and  stout. 
To  lead  so  frail  a  captive  in  his  train  ? 

In  silken  meshes  is  the  song-bird  snared  ; 
The  minnow  ambushed  in  a  fragile  seine  ; 
The  squirrel's  cage  is  slenderly  prepared, — 

So  light  a  thrall  may  timid  things  constrain, — 
All  save  the  Heart  are  mercifully  spared ; 
Would  that  Love  drew  it  by  a  gentler  chain  ! 


13 


XIV. 


JOB. 

THAT   man  of   Uz  whom  Thou   didst   scourge  of   old, 
Didst  strip  of  his  possessions,  and  bereave 
Of  sons  and  daughters,  that  he  might  receive 
The  lash  of  pain  in  measure  manifold ; 
Was  he  not.  Lord,  a  man  of  righteous  mold, 
Of  earnest  heart,  courageous  to  achieve 
Grace  in  Thy  sight,  and  to  Thy  love  to  cleave, 
Suiting  Thy  words,  "My  servant  Job,  behold. 
An  upright,  just  and  perfect  man  is  he  "  ? 
Surely  those  ills  were  rained  upon  his  head. 

And  all  those  sorrows  he  was  made  to  see. 
That  others  stricken  might  be  comforted. 

That  others  chastened  might  endure  the  rod. 
With  like  submission  to  the  will  of  God. 


H 


XV. 
"BAYOU    FOLK." 

To  the  Author  of  "  Bayou  Folk." 

MADAM,   your  work  is  destined  to  receive 
Still  wider  recognition ;    in  these  days, 
Among  the  writers  whom  we  justly  praise, 
Few  pens  such  triumphs  as  your  own  achieve. 
Witness  the  stories  which  you  richly  weave 
Of  Creole  life,   wherein  your  art  portrays 
Real  men  and  women,  and  in  charming  ways, 
Constrains  us  with  them  to  rejoice  or  grieve. 
This  book  of  yours  which  I  have  read  to-night 
Pleases  me  much :    my  words  but  feebly  tell 
How  I  have  followed  with  intense  delight 

The  fortunes  that  these  bayou  folk  befell; 
The  pen  most  truly  is  a  thing  of  might 

In  hands  like  yours  that  wield  its  power  so  well. 


15 


I  XVI. 

V 

MISTLETOE   AND    OAK. 

THE  mistletoe  about  the  mighty  oak, 
With  fringe  as  delicate  as  fairy  lace, 
Scales  the  gnarled  boughs  and  wraps  with  easeful  grace 
The  forest  monarch  in  its  leafy  cloak. 
Beauty  and  strength,   combining,   thus  evoke 

Our  pleased  surprise  ;    here  in  this  wildwood  space. 
Frailty  and  power  in  a  fast  embrace, 
Seem  like  an  emblem  of  love's  gentle  yoke. 
From  lovers  truly  they  learned  thus  to  twine, 

Sealing  their  compact  in  the  sombre  wood  ; 
Haply  did  Vivien  in  this  wise  recline 

On  Merlin's  bosom,  in  an  amorous  mood  ; 
Or  Marian  nestle,  like  a  graceful  vine, 

On  the  bold  breast  of  sturdy  Robin  Hood. 


i6 


XVII. 

FUNEREAL. 

ROWS  of  funereal  emblems  ;    banks  of  flowers ; 
And  the  dim  tapers  at  the  foot  and  head; 
And  underneath  the  fitful  light  they  shed, 
The  sombre  casket ;    and  the  long,  dull  hours. 
Lagging,  while  night  amid  their  shadows  cowers  ; — 
Such  is  the  vigil  by  the  shrouded  dead. 
The  solemn  watch  that  with  a  sense  of  dread, 
And  deep  despondency  the  soul  o'erpowers. 
But  soon  the  dawn  will  redden  ;    and  the  gloom, 

Lessen  a  little  ;    and  the  great  sun  smite 
The  darkness  from  him;    and  the  day  will  bloom 

In  its  accustomed  splendor  ;    and  the  night 
Fade ;    and  a  sweet  voice  in  the  hallowed  room. 
Lift  the  consoling  hymn,  <«  Lead,   Kindly  Light." 


XVIII. 

THE    PIONEER. 

INURED  to  hardship, — putting  fear  aside, — 
His  purpose  dared,  while  yet  our  coasts  were  new. 
To  press  beyond  the  confines,  and  to  hew 
The  path  of  empire  through  a  waste  untried. 

The  mountain  echoes  to  his  voice  replied  ; 
The  lordly  rivers  sped  his  birch  canoe  ; 
And,  in  the  forest,  like  a  dream  come  true, 
Around  his  cabin,  stretched  his  cornfield  wide. 

Though  savage  red-men  oft  assailed  him  sore. 
In  deadly  feud,  with  flint-lock  and  with  blade. 
And  wild  beasts  tracked  him  to  his  lonely  door. 

He  scoffed  at  danger,  steadfast,  unafraid  ; 

Such  were  the  ills  our  sturdy  fathers  bore, 

And  such  the  stuff  whereof  their  hearts  were  made. 


i8 


XIX. 

^  BAGDAD. 

OH,  to  have  traversed,  in  Al  Rashid's  reign. 
The  streets  of  storied  Bagdad;   to  have  seen. 
Blazing  with  jewels  in  the  morning  sheen, 
The  splendid  pageant  of  the  Caliph's  train. 
From  far  Balsora  to  have  voyaged  fain, 

Sailing  with  Sinbad;    to  have  dwelt  serene, 
After  my  travels,  in  a  calm  demesne, 
Loaded  with  honors  and  with  worldly  gain. 
For  I  am  wearied  of  this  irksome   clime. 

Where,  spent  with  toil,  we  daily  strive  for  bread  ; 
It  was  not  so  in  Bagdad's   golden  prime, 

When  good  Haroun  was  Caliph,  where,  instead, 
Favored  of  fortune,   in  a  moment's  time. 

The  world's  vast  treasures  at  one's  feet  were  spread. 


19 


XX. 

LANDSCAPES. 

THE  same  bleak  wilderness  that,  lo,  these  years 
My  feet  have  strayed  in,   Life  still  seems  to  be  ; 
At  every  point  the  same  sad  scenes  I  see, 
Which  long  have  pained  me,  in  this  Vale  of  Tears; 
Nothing  is  changed  ;   save,  as  the  twilight  nears, 

The  ways  grow  dimmer ;    and  each  shrub  and   tree 
Wears  gloomier  aspect;    and  there  comes  on  me 
A  mightier  burden  of  mysterious  fears. 
The  wind's  weird  whisper ;    the  complaining  shrill 
Of  blasts  far-off ;  the  sighing  of  the  breeze  ; 
Who  has  not  felt  upon  his  heart  a  chill. 
Deep  in  a  forest,  hearing  sounds  like  these  ? 
Yet,  Life  is  but  a  woodland,   vast  and  still. 
And  Death  an  owl  that  flutters  'mid  its  trees. 


20 


XXI. 

AMBITION. 

YE  who  with  hollow  cheeks  and  faces  pale, 
And  studious  foreheads  furrow'd  o'er  with  care, 
Forsake  the  low  and  level  thoroughfare 
To  follow  up  ambition's  mountain  trail, 
Be  not  o'er-quick  to  hurry  ;    woes  assail. 
And  unexpected  danger  and  despair. 
Await  the  pilgrim  as  he  ventures  there, 
Where  few  succeed  and  countless  hundreds  fail. 
Be  not  o'er-fast  to  travel ;    take  your  time, 
For  hard  and  toilsome  is  the  steep  to  climb, 

And  oft  misfortunes  come,  like  birds  of  prey. 
With  monstrous  wings  extended,   talons  bent. 
They  seize  our  tender  nestlings  of  content, 
And  scatter  all  their  rosy  plumes  away  ! 


21 


XXII. 

LIFE. 

ALBEIT  mine  eyes  no  goodly  prospects  cheer, 
-  And  Life,  so  far  as  I  can  understand, 
Seems  but  a  dismal  waste  of  barren  land. 
Where  no  sweet  harvests  thrive,  no  flowers  appear  ; 
Yet  in  the  desert  must  we  sojourn  here. 
Building  our  pyramids  upon  the  sand, 
Tho'  lone  and  limitless,  on  every  hand, 
The  devastation  stretches,  bleak  and  drear. 
So  looks  the  Sphinx  in  Egypt,  staid  and  stern, 
While  at  her  foot  for  many  a  rood  away. 
The  sultry  tracts  of  scorch'd  Sahara  lie ; 
Yet  full  and  furious  on  her  forehead  burn. 
Throughout  the  focal  and  the  fervent  day. 
The  splendid  honors  of  the  tropic  sky  ! 


22 


XXIII. 

KIPLING. 

HAVE  you  read  Kipling  ?     Here  is  something  new, 
A  book  of  charming  chapters,  novel,  grand. 
Breathing  of  India  and  the  Orient  land, — 
Plain  tales  that  teem  with  talent  thro'  and  thro' ; 
The  traits,  the  habits  of  the  suave  Hindoo 
Herein  are  shown  ;   and  vividly  at  hand. 
You  hear  the  music  of  the  martial  band, 
And  see  the  soldiers  passing  in  review. 
Have  you  read  Kipling?     You're  aware  of,  then. 

The  exploits  of  those  lusty  Musketeers  ; 
The  taking  of  the  town  of  Lung-tung-pen ; 

The  scourge  of  cholera,  and  the  station's  fears  ; 
And  Lispeth's  sorrow  in  her  dotage,  when 
She  told  the  love-tale  of  her  early  years. 


23 


XXIV. 

««  ANOTHER  STORY." 

HAVE  you  read    Kipling ?     There  was  once  a  Lad, 
A  brilliant  Boy,  who,  much  to  his  dismay, 
Was  sent  to  India,  and  I  grieve  to  say, 
Was  parted  from  the  only  Girl  he  had. 
He  heard  the  Ocean  as  it  murmured  mad. 
And  hoped  to  welcome,   at  no  distant  day. 
His  little  Love  from  England,  far  away, 
Whom  he  loved  dearly,  tho'  his  Heart  was  sad. 
Torn  from  her  Arms,  with  many  a  parting  Kiss, 
He  could  not  deem  her  otherwise  than  True, 
Until  she  wrote  him  and  she  told  him  this  : 

"Gone  with  a  Man  that's    Handsomer  than  You;" 
He  never  argued  'twas  a  lucky  miss. 

But  took  it  hard.      Which  no  Man  ought  to  do. 


24 


XXV. 

REVERIES. 

I  THINK  no  one  is  half  so  blest  as  I, — 
I  dream  always  of  babbling  brooks  that  pass, 
Green  margin'd  by  the  flower-studded  grass, 
And  rippled  as  of  soft  winds  blowing  by  ! 
White  clouds  o'erhead  seem  drifting  lazily  ; 

The  luU'd  air  fill'd  with  sweet  birds'  jargonings, 
And  sudden  flashes  of  their  sunlit  wings 
Against  the  azure  reach  of  summer  sky. 
I'm  half  inclin'd  to  whisper  you  the  reason. 

Such  May-day  fancies  hover  o'er  me,  sweet, 
So  woefully,  you'll  warrant,  out  of  season. 

For  snowflakes  dance  to  earth  with  fairy  feet ; 
'Tis  bitter  cold,  yet  reveries  to  me  bring 

The  day  we*ll  marry,  dearest,  in  the  Spring. 


25 


XXVI. 

DEATH. 

WHY  need'st  thou  shudder  with  dejected  air, 
And  blanch  with  craven  pallor  of  affright, 
To  take  thy  final  leave  of  life  and  light, 
And  for  the  silent  pilgrimage  prepare  ? 
When  death  upon  thee,  stealing  unaware, 

Comes  as  a  thief  comes,  in  the  noiseless  night, 
Be  thou  but  ready  and  'twill  all  wax  right, 
'T  is  but  a  respite  from  vexatious  care  ! 
Go,  thou ;    and  by  the  fagot-light  of  trust. 
Seek  thy  repose,  altho'  thy  couch  be  dust ; 

Tho'  o'er  thy  head  the  charnel  grasses  sway ; 
The  winding-sheet  enfold  thee  ;   and  thy  form  \ 

Be  served  to  supper  the  ignoble  worm;  ^ 

Sweet  shalt  thou  slumber  'neath  the  spaded  clay ! 


26 


XXVII. 

a- 

EVENING. 

I  TURN  full  pagan  at  the  day's  decline, 
And  worship  the  down-dropping  sun's  sweet  rays  ; 
And  in  the  deep'ning  glow  my  spirit  pays 
Its  warm  devotion  at  the  twilight's  shrine. 
Oh,  but  the  dusk  is   wondrously  divine ; 

Like  berries  gleaming  out  of  darken'd   boughs. 
The  bright  stars  globe  on  Heaven's  skyey  brows, 
And  night  brims  over  with  the  moon's  pale  wine  ! 
Then  seem  I  like  those  Mussulmans  of  eld, 

Who,   casting  over  skies  their  yearning  gaze. 
The  waving  palms  of  Paradise  beheld, 

With  fruits  bediamonding  their  verdurous  sprays ; 
I  bow  to  the  still  earth,  and  my  heart,  impell'd 
By  faith  like  theirs,  pours  also  forth  its  praise ! 


27 


XXVIII. 

THE  CRUCIFIXION. 

A  SPIKE  into  our  dear  Lord's  side  was  thrust 
(When  crucified,  He  groaned  on  Calvary, 
That  you  and  I  from  sin  might  purchas'd  be). 
Spilling  His  precious  blood  upon  the  dust. 
Then  roU'd  aghast  the  horror-stricken  main, 

And  hoary  mountains  shook  from  peak  to  base  ; 
Within  a  cloud,  the  sham'd  sun  hid  his  face. 
And  lo !   the  temple's  vail  was  rent  in  twain. 
O  strong  resolve  upon  that  cruel  Tree, 

To  suffer  and  to  perish  thus  for  Man ! 
Stifling  within  Him  His  divinity, 

Co-eval  with  eternity's  wide  span. 
He  bow'd  his  bless-ed  head  to  God's  decree, 
And  finished  on  the  cross  Redemption's  plan. 


28 


XXIX. 

FATE. 

AT  Strophadean  isles,  amid  Ionia's  sea, 
L  Tliere  dwelt  two  daughters  of  the  Ocean  God, 
Fair-hair'd  and  wing-ed,  who  in  Hesiod, 
Are  call'd  Aello  and  Ocypete. 
You  may  have  heard  what  sorrow  and  hardship 
They  heap'd  on  blind  Phineas,  thick  and  fast, 
And,  ever  as  he  sat  at  the  repast, 
They  snatch'd  the  morsels  from  his  starving  lip. 
Tho'  they  be  mythical  —  there  is  a  fate. 

Which  thus  denies  us  fortune's  fairest  flowers; 
And  when  we'd  pluck  them,  doth  anticipate 

The  fond  design  and  baffle  it  always; 
Cropping  the  sweetest  we  believed  were  ours. 
With  ruthless  hand  before  our  ravag'd  gaze. 


29 


XXX. 

MARCARIA. 

I   LOVE  Marcaria,  and  when  I  said : 
' «  Caress  me,  love,  I  yearn  to  be  caress'd. 
Yearn  to  be  folded  to  thy  loving  breast," 
She  only  tossed  contemptuously  her  head. 
I  might  have  pined  away,  uncomforted ; 

But  that  it  chanc'd  I  spake  in  sorrow's  tone  : 
*'  Would  I  had  died  ere  ever  I  had  known 
Thy  love  for  me,  Marcaria,  was  dead." 
Then  she  caress'd  me  to  my  heart's   content, 

And  solaced"  me  with  kisses  numberless. 
Till  thro'  my  soul  a  blissful  comfort  went. 

And  there  was  joy  where  darken'd  once  distress 
So  I  remain  an  injured  innocent. 

The  hurt  recipient  of  Love's  fond  redress. 


30 


XXXI. 

MANSIONS    BEAUTIFUL. 

HOW  beautiful  are  Thy  dwellings  in  the  sky, 
Whose  shining  portals  stand  for  us  asunder, 
O  Thou  who  sittest  in  the  volley'd  thunder. 
And  at  whose  feet  the  vivid  lightnings  fly  ! 
Like  one  who  once  in  Patmos  did  descry 

Thy  city,  rapt  with  'wilderment  and  wonder, 
So  may  we,  compass'd  in  the  darkness  under. 
By  faith,  behold  Thy  palaces  on  high. 
Scant  is  our  vision,  bound  by  earthly  ties  ; 

Wedded  to  flesh,  our  spirits  scarce  can  see ; 
But  oh!  ,to  one  just- mounted  to  the  skies  — 

Some  ransom'd  soul  that's  newly  been  set  free  — 
To  its  new-open'd  and  anointed  eyes. 

How  beautiful  those  mansions,  Lord,  must  be  ! 


31 


J  XXXII. 

CONQUEST. 

NOW  the  shrill  clarion  of  the  katydid 
Trills  with  a  weird  persistence,  never  done, 
And  day  has  groped  with  faltering  steps  amid 

The  failing  honors  of  the  sinking  sun  ; 
Shade  upon  shade,  night's  majesty  is  won 

From  wide,   environing   scopes  of   cloud-wreathed  sky. 
Whose  wild  and  matchless  splendors  are  begun, 

Like  fading  embers,  to  dissolve  and  die. 
Soon  the  red  stars  their  spectral  lamps  shall  burn  ; 

The  sullen  moon  drift  grimly  on  the  view ; 
And  darkness  spread  her  raven  pennons  stern. 

And  night's  rich  conquest  be  achieved  anew ; 
While  evening  empties  from  her  sable  urn 

The  dead  day's  ashes,  in  the  dusk  and  dew. 


32 


XXXIII. 

PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 

SLEEP  will  not  visit  me  to-night,  at  all ; 
I  ask  in  vain  her  drowsy,  fond  embrace. 
Implore  in  vain  the  homage  of  her  grace, 
No  kindly  dews  upon  mine  eyes  will  fall. 
I  turn  and  watch  upon  my  chamber  wall 

Two  shapes   that   haunt  a  woodland's    flowery    space, 
One  wears  Virginia's  beautiful  young  face, 
And  one  the  youthful  lineaments  of  Paul. 
I  can  not  chase  the  vision  from  mine  eyes, 

Nor  shut  these  hapless   creatures  from  my  sight, 
Who  so  beguile  my  sorrow  and  my  tears. 
Who  so  enlist  my  sympathy  and  sighs, 
For  I  was  reading  in  a  book,  to-night, 

That  sweet,  pathetic  story  of  St.  Pierre's. 


33 


XXXIV. 


**BE   NOT   AFRAID. 


THE  angel  at  the  sepulchre,  descried 
By  those  who  thither  fared,  was  heard  to  speak 
These  blessed  words  :    « «  Be  not  afraid ;    ye  seek 
Jesus  of  Nazareth,  which  was  crucified ; " 
So  shall  the  souls  that  turn  from  sin  aside, 
Needy  and  heavy-laden  ones  and  weak, 
Sustained  and  solaced  be  by  voices  meek. 
Which   comfort  those  who  make    His    cross    their    guide. 
Such,  at  His  feet,  shall  favor  sure  obtain, 

Howe'er  the  wicked  scoff,  the  godless  rail ; 
Eternal  peace  shall  in  their  bosoms  reign, 

And  mercy's  cup  for  them  will  never  fail; 
Great  is  their  priceless,  their  immortal  gain. 
Who  in  their  path  the  living  Savior  hail. 


34 


AN    INDIAN    LEGEND. 

GAINING  by  sinuous  paths  the  frowning  height, 
Thro'  wildwoods  fragrant  with  the  breath  of  May 
I  see  below  me  in  the  morning  light, 
The  landscape  stretch  away. 

My  step  along  the  echoing  bowlders  rings ; 

Some  lone  bird  flutters  from  its  dim  retreat ; 
Some  black  bats  scatter,   with  bewildered  wings. 

At  my  approaching  feet. 

Sharp  bits  of  chiseled  flint-rock  strew  the  ground, 
Old  arrow-heads — I  hardly  know  their  name  — 

No  more  to  whistle  at  the  bow's  rebound, 
True  to  the  archer's  aim. 

From  ferny  fissures  springing  in  the  breeze, 

Wild  roses  rustle  with  their  wealth  of  bloom, 

Shedding  from  rifled  blossoms,  prized  by  bees, 
Wafts  of  their  faint  perfume. 

35 


An  Indian  Legend, 

Along  the  slant  a  swimming  vapor  furls, 

Clings  like  a  thin  cloud  in  the  silvery  sky, 

Till  lightly  shaken  into  airy  curls, 
A  zephyr  sweeps  it  by. 

Here,  when  the  solemn  midnight  waves  her  wand, 
Two  Indian  shades  appear,  with  flowing  locks  — 

A  maiden  and  her  lover,  hand  in  hand. 
Glide  o'er  the  moonlit  rocks ; 

Glide  up  the  rugged  steep,  from  cleft  to  cleft, 

Their  light  feet  glimpsing  under  streaming  stoles, 

And  where  they  step,  the  gemmeous  footprints  left 
Glow,  like  ignescent  coals  ! 

The  hawk  forsakes  its  nest  with  clamorous  flight ; 

Fleet  hares  go  springing  down  the  winding  way  ; 
A  copperhead  uncoils  in  sheer  affright. 

And  slips  beneath  a  spray. 

The  aged  and  garrulous  pioneer  who  dwells 

Where  yon  blue  wreaths  of  towering  smoke  arise, 

To  the  sweet  children  of  his  household  tells 
The  legend  in  this  wise  : 

36 


An  Indian  Legend. 

In  days  before  the  white  intruder  came, 

A  Shawnee  girl,  the  floweret  of  her  tribe, 

Felt  the  strange  wine  of  love  suffuse  her  frame 
And  her  whole  soul  imbibe. 

But  dark  the  deadly  draught  was  mixed  with  woe  ! 

Her  heart  from  its  belov'd  was  sundered  wide, 
And,  all  the  hope  she  cherished  thus  laid  low, 

She  droop'd  at  length,  and  died  ; 

Just  as  the  flow'rets  in  their  beauty  fade  — 
The  fresh  young  blue-bell  by  the  jaunty  rill, 

And  the  meek  violet  in  the  woodland  shade. 
The  aster  on  the  hill ! 

They  made  beneath  this  bluff  her  narrow  grave. 
Where,  rippling  by  the  rocks,  the  brooklet  sings. 

And  the  cool  ferns  and  water  lilies  wave. 
And  wild  birds  wet  their  wings. 

Then,   ere  the  forest  doff'd  its  green  array. 
He  who  convoked  her  sad,  untimely  fate, 

Threw,  in  a  distant  war,  his  life  away  — 
The  wrong  to  expiate. 

37 


An  Indian  Legend, 

The  new  moon  framed  on  high  its  radiant  arch, 

When  on  rude  bier,  draped  with  a  panther's  hide, 

His  mangled  corse  was  borne  with  solemn  march 
And  buried  by  her  side. 

Tho'  many  a  season  has  advanced  since  then. 

And  many  a  moon  has  waxed  and  waned  away, 

And  in  their  stead  a  mightier  race  of  men 
Holds  undisputed  sway. 

From  happy  hunting-groGnds,  thro'  which  they  range, 
They  still  return,   at  noiseless  dead  of  night. 

The  sweets  of  ardent  pledges  to  exchange 
On  this  eternal  height ! 


38 


I 


A   NIGHT'S    DREAM. 

DREAMED  we  sat  together,  as  we  used  to  long  ago, 
When   the   early  dews  were    falling    and   the    sinking 

sun  was  low, 
In    an    arbour,    dim    and   shaded,    where    a    mocking-bird 

apart, 
Was  singing  a  sonata  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart. 
A  tawny  tiger  lily,  that  was  blooming  in  a  vase. 
Its    fragrant    tribute    offered    as    the    zephyr    swept    the 

place ; 
And   the   moon   upon  the   mountain    shed   her   lustre  o'er 

the  land. 
Till  the   night  was   like   a  virgin  with  a  lamp  within    her 

hand. 
We   saw  the    bright  pomegranate,   as   it    glistened    in    the 

shine 
Of  the  pearly  evening   planet,  and  we  smelt  the  trumpet- 
vine 
As  it  clambered   all    about  us,  and  we  caught  the    cheery 

sound 
As    the    little    crickets    carol'd    'neath    the    roses    on    the 

ground. 

39 


A  Night's  Dream. 

'T  was  in  no  fairy  country — no  region  vague  or  blurred  — 
Nor  far  Arcadian  pasture  where  the  pipes  of  Pan  are  heard, 
But  in  the  dreamy  Southland  where  the  oleanders    grow, 
I  was  talking  to  my  sweetheart  as  I  used  to  long  ago. 
Her   slender  form  was   folded  in  the   hollow  of  my  arm ; 
Her  voice  was  soft  and  gentle  and  it  held  me  like  a  charm. 
While  the  songster  in  a  revelry  of  music  all  along 
In  the  arbour  woke  the  echoes  of  a  carnival  of  song. 
Her  little  hand  was  lying,  like  a  lily  in  my  own, 
The  gem  upon  her  finger  in  the  yellow  moonlight  shone, 
Outrivalled  by  the   splendor  of  the   smile    upon  her  face. 
As    she    nestled    down    demurely   in    the   warmth    of    my 
embrace. 

Yet  all  that  I  was  dreaming  —  I  regretted  when  I  rose  — 
Was  but  a  fabrication  of  the  wizard  of  repose ; 
A  beautiful  invention  that  was  never  meant  to  stay. 
But  to  vanish   like  the    dew-drops  when  the  night  should 

steal  away. 
Ah,  if  indeed,  we  wandered,  as  we  often  used  to  do. 
In  the  dreamy  Southern  arbour  where  the  oleanders  grew, 
And  the   mocking-birds  were  singing,  and  with    moonlight 

on  the  land, 
I  wonder  what  she'd  answer  if  I  asked  her  for  her  hand  ? 

40 


A  Night's  Dream. 

Tho'  the    hope  be  more    delusive    than    a   jack-o-lantern's 

gleam, 
Tho'  there's   nothing    so    uncertain    as    a    sweetheart  or  a 

dream, 
Still,  my  Hfe  would  be  so  happy,  and  my  heart  would  be 

so  light, 
If  only  in  the  arbour  we  could  meet  again  to-night. 


41 


/ 


V 

THE    FLOWER    GIRL. 

IT  does  not  seem  like  Spring  to  me, 
Tho'  bevies  of  white  daisies  fly 
All  idly  o'er  the  grassy  lea, 
Beneath  the  smiling  sky. 

My  cattle  browse  in  leafy  woods, 

Where  golden  sunlight,  leaning  fair. 

Bids  nascent  lilacs  cleave  their  buds, 
And  lay  their  bosoms  bare. 

And  breadths  of  lilies  bridge  the  stream 
On  which  the  oreads  used  to  cross  ; 

And  by  the  dewy  margins  gleam 
The  odorous  mint  and  moss. 


And  yet,  somehow,  I  know  not  why, 

'Mid  all  this  bright  and  blossoming  store, 

I  bow  my  hapless  head  and  sigh, 
« '  It  will  be  Spring  no  more. " 

42 


The  Flower  Girl. 

'Tis,  maybe,  I  no  longer  meet, 

By  stream  or  stile,  at  morning  hours,    , 
In  rain  or  shine,  the  maiden  sweet. 

Who  used  to  gather  flowers. 

Oh,  but  her  coming  footfalls  were 
The  sign  and  signal  over  earth 

For  all  bright,  fragile  things  like  her 
To  burst  in  beauty  forth. 

The  prescient  flowers  beat  quick  at  heart ; 
The  birds  sang  welcome  when  she  came  ; 
\(     And  through  my  veins,  with  quivering  start. 
There  burnt  a  holy  flame. 

She  roamed  with  basket  neatly  lined 

With  cool,  lush  ferns  and  sifted  mold. 

All  heaped  with  blossoms  choice,  and  twined 
With  wreaths  of  marigold. 

Oft  thus  I've  met  her  in  the  dale. 
Or  on  the  upland  would  she  be  ; 

I  thought  the  flowers  were  not  so  frail. 
Nor  beautiful  as  she. 

43 


The  Flower  GirL 

Too  frail ;    for,  as  the  shining  web 

Floats  leeward,  loosened  from  its  spray, 

On  the  flower-tide,  in  its  last  ebb, 
Her  soul  was  borne  away. 

And  so  it  does  not  seem  like  Spring, 
Tho'  balmy  airs  about  me  throng. 

And  warblers  wanton  on  the  wing, 
In  ecstasy  of  song. 

And  yet  I  know  her  gentle  hand  — 
By  perfect  grace  immortal  made  — 

Now  gathers  in  a  fairer  land 
The  blooms  that  never  fade. 


44 


FROM    THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS. 

IN  Bagdad  once,  in  good  Al  Hassan's  day, 
The  Princess  Hilda,  by  a  genie's  power, 
Was  from  her  palace  spirited  away, 

And  forced  to  languish  in  a  distant  tower. 

There,  all  forlorn,  behind  the  prison  grate. 

Her  eyes  dropped  pearls  of  anguish  and  despair, 

As  if  their  weeping  could  reverse  her  fate, 
Or  tears  could  soften  her  impassioned  care. 

She    wrung    with    ceaseless    moan    her    shackeled    hands, 
And  pressed  her  face  against  the  cruel  bars ; 

She  heard  the  clanking  of  her  iron  bands, 

And  watched  the  throbbing  of  the  silent  stars. 

As  thus,  one  eve,  a  longing  look  she  cast. 

What  time  the  moon  besilvered  all  the  sky. 

Along  the  road  to  Bagdad  leading  past, 
She  saw  the  plum'd  Abdallah  riding  by. 

45 


From  The  Arabian  Nights, 

Then  with  a  voice  by  gathering  hope  imbued, 
And  by  resistless  sorrow  rendered  strong, 

His  succor  in  her  woeful  plight  she  sued. 
And  told  him  all  the  story  of  her  wrong. 

The  Sheik  approached,  and  first,  by  Allah's  grace. 
And  next,  by  all  his  holy  creed,  he  swore 

That  ne'er  did  beauty  wear  so  sad  a  face. 
Or  grief  assume  so  fair  a  guise  before. 

♦ «  And  tho'  in  the  endeavor  I  should  die. 

And  mix  with  dust  dishonored,  on  my  word. 

Before  to-morrow's  sun  shall  mount  the  sky, 
I'll  scale  the  rampart  and  uncage  the  bird." 

O  potent  speech !    for  by  the  prophet's  beard, 

Altho'  a  greater  marvel  ne'er  could  be. 
The  charm  was  snapt  —  the  prison  disappeared, 

And  lo,  the  captive  stood  before  him  free  ! 

So  much  a  kind  and  generous  action  thrives. 

These   two  were  wed,  and   here   my  tale   must    cease. 

They  led  becoming  and  exemplary  lives. 

And  died,  like  all  good  Mussulmans,  in  peace. 
46 


A    MINSTREL'S    SONG    IN    OSSIAN. 

^^/^^  SING  the  sweet  song  over,"  said  Utha's  bursting 

V^       sigh ; 
<  <  Did  the   mighty  fall   in   battle,   and   did '  Crimora  die  ?  " 
The  minstrel  saw  a  glistening  tear  bedew  the  virgin's  eye. 

'Twas   at   Cathulla's  Feast  of    Shells,  where   Fingal   once 

delayed, 
The   harper  on   his  trembling    strings  a  plaintive   air  had 

played J 
A  song  of  love  and  valor  that  had  charmed  the  listening 

maid. 

Once  more  his  softly  trembling  harp,  the  -bard,   obedient, 

strung  ; 
Once  more  the  tender    ditty  in  a  pleasing  voice  he  sung. 
Once    more   the    maid  attentive,  on  the  theme   enchanted 

hung. 

He  sang  of  fair  Crimora  ;    of  Connal,  her  adored. 

When    over    Morven's    flowery    field    the    tide    of    battle 

poured. 
How  the  insolent  invader  felt  the  vengeance  of  his  sword. 

47 


A  MinstreVs  Song  in  Osstan. 

And  she  so  fond  and  beautiful,  the  fairest  of  the  fair, 
She  masked  herself  in  armor  that  he  might  not  know  her 

there, 
And  with  her  youth  beloved,  to  the  conflict  did  repair. 

Her   golden   locks   streamed   far  behind ;    her  supple  bow 

was  strong. 
She    turned    the    barb    against   the   foe ;    she    loosed   the 

sounding  thong ; 
Oh,  false  the  erring  arrow  sped,  and  wildly  it  went  wrong ! 

It  pierced  her  lover's  side  ;  he  fell,  as  falls  upon  the  plain 
The  oak  beneath  the  woodman's  axe,  that  ne'er  shall  rise 

again ; 
And  all  the  day  and  all  the  night  she  groaned  with  grief 

and  pain. 

But  what  can  dry  the  mourner's  tears,  or  what  can  soothe 

her  sighs  ? 
She  withers  like  the  lily ;  like  the  drooping  rose  she  dies  ; 
Their  mingled  dust,  beneath  a  stone,  by  Carric-thura  lies. 

««  Sleep  softly,"  gentle  Utha  said,  "  by  Lotha's  winding  rills, 
For  there  the  earth  incloses,  beneath  the  daffodils, 
The  loveliest   pair  of   lovers  that  ever   roamed  our  hills." 

48 


THE  DESOLATION  AT  BAL-CLUTHA. 

BAL-CLUTHA,  all  fallen  thy  towers, 
In  the  charm  of  confusion  are  strown  ; 
The  thistles  spring  up  and  the  flowers, 

And  the  moss  creeps  over  each  stone. 
In  the  riot  of  reveling  hours, 

Thou  wearest  of  triumph  the  smile, 
Tho'  the  winds  and  the  pestilent  showers, 
All  darkly  thy  columns  defile. 

Crumble,  crumble,  ancient  castle  ; 
Tempests  wrestle 

With  thy  towers  ; 
Where  thy  hoary  turrets  tumble. 

Sweet  shall  bloom  the  jasmine  flowers. 

The  eglantine  lovingly  muffles, 

With  blossoms  thy  stanch  colonnades  ; 
The  debris  of  fallen  walls  ruffles 

The  brook  which  thy  balcony  shades. 

49 


The  Desolation  at  Bal-Clutha, 

I  hear  the  wild  fox  as  she  scuffles 

With  her  frolicsome  young  at  their  sports, 

And  the  wind  as  it  mournfully  shuffles 
Thro'  thine  empty  and  desolate  courts. 

Ramble,  ramble,  wind  that  whistles, 
Thro'  the  thistles 

Draped  with  vines, 
Where  the  serpent  wraps  the  bramble. 

And  the  swarthy  lizard  shines. 

The  ominous  croak  of  the  raven 

Resounds,  and  the  screech  of  the  owl ; 
The  ghost  of  a  monk,  gaunt  and  shaven. 

With  visage  concealed  by  a  cowl, 
Floats  shudderingly  by,  like  a  craven. 

Up-borne  on  the  loitering  gale  ; 
And  beyond,  from  their  niches  in  heaven, 

The  stars,  thro'  his  body,  burn  pale. 

Sparkle,  sparkle,  star  that  nightly 
Scatters  brightly 

Thy  mild  ray  ; 
Tho'  this  massive  ruin  darkle, 

Thou  shalt  never  know  decay. 
50 


The  Desolation  at  Bal-Clutha. 

O  fallen,  O  desolate  palace, 

Where  moss  creeps  over  each  stone  ; 
Where  thistles  spring  up  in  their  malice  ; 

Where  roses  are  mockingly  blown  ; 
Ruin  plieth  his  trade,  stern  and  callous, 

The  rime  on  thy  hearth  thickens  hoar  ; 
The  foxes  look  out  through  the  trellis ; 

The  ravens  fly  in  at  the  door. 

Faintly,  faintly,  I  undaunted, 
With  the  haunted 

Night  commune ; 
Sweeping  from  my  viol  quaintly, 

Ballads  to  the  broken  moon. 


51 


OSSIAN'S  ELEGY  ON  FINGAL,   THE  FALLEN. 

YE  who  shall  pass  this  simple  headstone  by, 
In  honor  pause,  nor  idly  turn  away  ; 
Beneath  this  turf  his  hallowed  ashes  lie 

Who  was,  in  life,  his  country's  chiefest  stay. 

His  was  the  hand  that  shot  the  deadliest  dart 

That  ever  stretched  a  foeman  on  the  plain  ; 

His  was  the  softest  and  the  kindliest  heart 

That  ever  sought  to  soothe  a  comrade's  pain. 

By  fear  nor  favor  from  his  purpose  swerved  — 
Swayed  by  no  motive  but  the  love  of  right  — 

Thro'  many  a  long  and  bloody  war  he  served. 
And  came  triumphant  out  of  every  fight. 

He  was  the  champion  of  the  weak  and  wronged  ; 

The  yeoman's  help,  the  bondman's  friend  was  he  ; 
A  thousand  clansmen  at  his  summons  thronged, 

And  loyal  courtiers  bent  the  duteous  knee. 

52 


Ossian's  Elegy  on  Fingal,  the  Fallen. 

No  coveter  of  station,  power  or  place, 

He  shaped  his  empire  to  colossal  size; 

And,  with  his  native  and  accustomed  grace, 
Beheld  the  fabric  of  his  fame  arise. 

But  like  some  column  of  immense  design. 
That,  shattered,  lies  upon  the  level  clay, 

So,  stretched  in  death  upon  the  turf  supine, 
On  Crona's  field  the  mangled  monarch  lay. 

As  fades  the  floweret  in  its  loveliest  prime ; 

As  breaks  the  pitcher  at  the  flowing  well ; 
As  parts  the  pillar  in  its  might  sublime  ; 

As  falls  the  tower  in  its  strength,  he  fell. 

And  long  his  country  shall  lament  his  fate, 

The  while  her  heart  with  poignant  anguish  bleeds  ; 

Shall  long  the  virtues  of  his  life  relate  ; 

Shall  long  remember  and  recount  his  deeds. 

Then  rest  thee  ever  where  the  cedars  grow. 
To  type  thy  glory  and  attest  our  grief ; 

And  while  thou  liest  'neath  the  verdure  low. 
Soft  be  thy  slumbers  —  thou  illustrious  chief. 

53 


TIME  AND  GRIEF. 

J'T^IS  said  that  Time  for  every  grief 
X.     A  pure  and  precious  balm  imparts, 

Whose  grateful  virtues  of  relief 

Steal  sweetly  thro',  our  aching  hearts. 

'Tis  sorrow's  coinage  ;  they  who  cope 
With  her,  the  empty  solace  prize ; 

It  serves  to  spread  a  flower  of  hope, 
And  bends  an  iris  o'er  their  skies. 

'Tis  sweet  on  misery's  brink  to  hear, 
While  wildly  dark  our  ills  betide  — 

The  still,  small  whisper  in  the  ear  — 

Which  bids  our  trembhng  fears  subside. 

But  little  heed  the  flattering  voice. 
And  trust  no  hope,  however  fair ; 

Unteach  thy  bosom  to  rejoice, 

And  thou  can'st  sorrow  firmer  bear. 

54 


Time  and  Grief, 


Hast  thou  a  wish  ?     Thy  wish  is  vain  ; 

Thine  agony  shall  keener  grow  ; 
Time  never  neutralizes  pain, 

Nor  cools  the  fevered  lips  of  woe. 

But  using  oft  a  pliant  tone, 

He  feigns  compassion's  soft  degree, 
That  when  our  hearts  again  are  strown, 

Their  wrecks  may  all  the  richer  be. 

And  tho'  this  truth  thou  may'st  contemn, 
Thine  own  experience  yet  shall  find 

That  joy  was  formed  a  transient  gem, 
But  grief  perpetual  was  designed. 

Go,  fling  thy  sorrows  to  the  gales. 

They  are  not  gone  ;    they  still  are  rife ; 

Thy  breast  with  every  breath  inhales 
Their  rancor  back  into  thy  life. 

Like  those  who  read  on  morning's  sky. 
By  signs  her  azure  depths  display, 

What  clouds  shall  tumult  rock  on  high. 
How  dark  a  night  succeed  the  day  ; 

55 


Time  and  Grief. 


Even  thus  on  Time's  eternal  front, 
We  view  thro'  unavailing  tears, 

What  must  be  borne  of  sorrow's  brunt, 
Unsuccored  by  the  flying  years  ; 

And  know  the  only  balm  for  care 

Must  drip  from  death's  benignant  cloud, 

And  curdling  in  the  veins,  prepare 

The  clay-cold  sleeper  for  the  shroud. 


PERFECT  PEACE. 

NOW  in  my  heart  hath  sorrow  pressed 
The  thorn  that  fills  my  soul  with  gloom  ; 
And  vainly  since  I  sigh  for  rest, 
Oh,  let  me  joyless  seek  the  tomb. 

'Tis  sweet  to  think  some  flowers  there 
Shall  wave  in  zephyr's  gentle  breath, 

And  sods  their  verdurous  mantles  wear 
Above  my  narrow  house  of  death. 

But  may  no  storied  marble  deck 

The  silent  place  with  pompous  show ; 

I  would  not  alien  eyes  should  reck 
What  dust  is  sepulchered  below. 

Enough  that  perfect  peace  shall  brood, 

Oblivion  shade  her  rayless  eye, 
And  silence,  in  her  stillest  mood, 

Compress  her  pallid  lips  and  die. 

57 


Perfect  Peace, 

Such  would,  to  e'en  the  last  degree, 

For  ills,  through  which  in  life  I've  pressed, 

An  ample  reparation  be  — 
The  prefix  to  eternal  rest. 

Then  ope  the  grave,  for  only  there 
May  hearts  disrobe  of  rue  and  sin  ; 

Earth  grants  no  refuge  otherwhere, 
But  offers  plenteous  room  within. 

Would'st  thou  from  her  embrace  recoil, 
Since  both  with  kindred  clay  are  rife  ? 

Thou  potter's  crock,  wherein  doth  boil. 
At  passion's  heat,  the  ichor.  Life. 

The  flame  hath  scorched  thee ;    thou  are  rent, 
Thy  being's  liquor  leaked  away ; 

Now  be  thy  brilliant  fragments  blent 
With  grosser  particles  of  clay. 

They  do  not  deem  their  fate  severe 

Who  sweetly  sleep  from  anguish  free  ; 

Who  banished  from  their  troubles  here, 
Are  blest,  no  matter  where  they  be. 

58 


Perfect  Peace. 

For,  'neath  the  fond  earth's  sheltering  weight 
Reposing,  all  their  sorrows  past, 

The  lilies  of  a  goodly  fate 

Have  come  and  covered  them  at  last. 

A  Persian  sentence,  soft  and  brief  — 
The  sweetest  ever  dwelt  on  breath  — 

Declares,  when  sorely  stung  with  grief, 
Our  truest,  tenderest  friend  is  Death. 


59 


A   LYRIC    OF    THE    HAZEL-NUT    PATCH. 

L 

A  PLEASANT    sort    of    pastime,    when    the    Autumn 
comes  around, 
Is  to   roam   the   hills    and   hollows  where   the   hazel-nuts 

abound. 
The  blossom  time  is  over  and  the  wren   has  taken  wing, 
And  the  jay,  alone  remaining,  has  the   hardihood  to  sing. 
No  other  sound  of  cheerfulness  is  audible  about  — 
The  Autumn  comes  in  triumph,  with  her  sombre  banners  out ; 
She  crops  the  mighty  forest  with  her  devastating  shears, 
And   every  thing  is  gloomy,  when  the  hazel-nut  appears ; 
Yet  merrily  and  cheerily,  with  baskets  we  may  wend 
Our  way  into  the  woodland,  where  the  hazel  bushes  bend. 

n. 

My  blessings  on  the  hazel  bush  that  never   grew  so  high 
As  to  waste  its    screen  of   leafage,   like  the    oak    tree,   on 

the  sky. 
Nor  yet  as  dwarfed  and  stunted  as  the  vine  against  the  earth, 
Whose  growth  of  leafy  thickness  forms  a  veil  of  little  worth ; 

60 


A  Lyric  of  the  Ha{el-nut  Patch, 

The  hazel,  Hke  a  conscious  bush,  by  intuition  grew 

The  proper   height   and   thickness  to  seclude  us  from  the 

view  ; 
As  if  it  felt  when  Autumn  came,  with  all  her  locks  aflow 
Every  maiden  would  be  coming  with  a  basket  and  a  beau  ; 
That  merrily  and  cheerily,  in  couples  they  would  wend 
Their   way   into  the    woodland,    where    the    hazel    bushes 

bend. 

III. 

When  the  hull'  is  sere  and  tawny,  and  the  nut  is  dry  and 

brown, 
And  beneath  its  gracious  burden  every  twig  is  laden  down, 
And   yields    upon  the   slightest  touch  its  treasures  by  the 

batch, 
We  feel  as  we  were  welcome  to  the    finest  in  the  patch. 
The   rabbit    scampers   from    our   path,  his    flying    bounds 

are  heard  ; 
A  covey  of  young  partridges  salutes  the  mother  bird ; 
She  answers  from  a  neighboring  shrub,  but  watch  her  as 

we  may. 
Unwitnessed  of  our  alien  eyes,  she'll  slip  the  brood  away ; 
And  merrily  and  cheerily  we'll  hear  her  notes  ascend 
Far  off,  amid  the  woodland,  where  the  hazel  bushes  bend. 

6i 


A  Lyric  of  the  Ha{el-nut  Patch. 


IV. 

And  when  at  eve,  the  rising  moon   emits  a  mellow  glow, 
And  our  hazel-nuts  are  gathered,   and  it's  time  for  us  to 

go; 

And  the  cooling  dews  are  falling ;    and  the  clanking  bells 

we  hear 
Of  the  cattle,  winding   homeward,  thro'  the  gloaming  still 

and  clear  — 
We  rest  ourselves  a  little,  and  we  gather  up  our  load. 
And  with  a  sense  of   gratitude,  we   journey  on  the  road. 
And  think  of  all  the  Winter  nights,  the  blazing  fire  about, 
When  we'll  crack  the  nuts  upon  the  hearth  and  pluck  the 

kernels  out. 
Thus  merrily  and  cheerily,  contentedly  we  wend 
Our  way  from  out  the  woodland,  where  the  hazel  bushes 

bend. 


62 


REQUIEM. 

I 


In    vernal    sheen    their    tendrils    green    enwrap    her 


N  many  a  wild,  fantastic  wreath  the  pliant  ivies  revel ; 
vernal    sheen 
narrow  mound, 
And    rude    the    riot-loving    winds    their    verdurous    folds 
dishevel ; 
And    bend    the    graceful    lilies    prone    upon    the    dewy 
ground. 


Within    a    shady    forest    nook,    where    morning's    crystal 
splendor 
Slants  long  and  slim  thro'  branches  dim,   like  javelins 
of  gold  ; 
And   where    the    evening's    sombre  dyes,    mysterious    and 
tender, 
Commingle     in    the     darkening    wood    with     shadows 
manifold ; 

She    sleeps,    beneath    the    fragrant    turf,    the    cold    and 

dreamless  slumber  ; 

Nor    e'er   again    shall    waken    fain   to  my  impassioned 

plea, 

63 


Requiem. 

Tho'  thence  should   my  pathetic  sighs  be  wafted  without 
number, 
And  o'er  the  green  grass  of   her  grave   my  sad  tears 
sprinkled  be. 

Perhaps  beneath  the  pearly  moon,  from  odorous  recesses 
The  lissome  bands  of  fairylands  convene  about  the  place. 

Tearing  with  woeful  wailing  their  amaranthine  tresses  — 
She  was  their   only  lineal  kin  of    all  our  mortal  race. 

Hers  was  the  beauty  undivined,  which  is  alone  created 
Out  of  the  trill  of  a  rippling  rill,  with  every  happy 
trait, 

In  witching  fairy  realms  remote,  and  magically  translated 
To  mortal  form  and  feature  from  the  invisible  fairy-state. 

Time  had  dispatched,  with  winged  speed,  since  this  event 
transpiring. 
Evoked  her  birth  and  blessed  the  earth  with   her  in 
blossom-wise, 
A  score  of   flowery   Summers   on  their   blissful   missions, 
firing 
Sweet   passion's  vestal    ardor  in  her   splendid   twilight 
eyes. 

64 


Requiem. 


She   bore    a    close   resemblance  in    her  willowy  form    and 
features 
To  the  airy,  delicate,  fairy-folk  that  daintily  exist 
In     elfin     lore     and     legend     as     wee,     gleesome-hearted 
creatures. 
Who     keep    beneath    the    brionied    oak,    the    happy, 
moonlit  tryst. 

Full   dark    were    her    enamoring    eyes    as    is    the    pansy's 
splendor, 
But  oh,  the  bright,  entrancing  light  their  ardent  glance 
bestowed  ; 
And    they   burned  with    soft,   subdued    desire,   immaculate 
and  tender. 
Wherein,  like  jewels  'neath  the  tide,  her  sweet  thoughts 
fairly  glowed. 

We  always  were  inseparable,  and  where  the  herons  waded, 
Thro'  reed  and  vine,   with  dews    ashine,  we  wandered 
hand  in  hand  ; 
And  hand  in  hand  we  lingered  where  the  rippling  stream 
was  shaded, 
And    gathered    shining    lilies    from    the    fern-enameled 
strand. 

65 


Requiem, 


At  lucent  noon,  or  dewy  eve,  we  twain  were  aye  together ; 
We    saw    thro'    Orient    gates    of    dawn    the    morning 
splendors  start. 
In    the    soft,    prolific    blossom-time,    or    fruitful    Autumn 
weather ; 
And    when   the    Winter   wrapped   the  wold,   we   twain 
were  not  apart. 

But  cold  upon  the  senseless  earth  the  passive  lily  falleth, 
And  other   blooms  the   sod  entombs,  as  beautiful    and 
gay. 
The  flowers  of   human  pattern  when  the   dread   despoiler 
calleth, 
In    all    their    reigning    pride   of   bloom    as    silent   pass 
away. 

Oh,     sweet    to    my    expectant    heart    was     love's    divine 
beginning  ; 
Propitious    gleamed    the    star    I    dreamed    would    lead 
triumphant  on  ; 
But  in   the   midst  of    my  delight,   such    matchless    beauty 
winning, 
Lo,  darkness  quenched  its  fickle  beam  and  all  my  joy 
was  gone. 

66 


Requiem, 

But    still    the   vision    gleams    apace,    tho'    shadowy    and 
meager  — 
Too  fond  to  be  revealed  entire  to  unanointed  eyes  ; 
And   lorn   my   lonesome    spirit   waits    the    summons,   keen 
and  eager. 
To    clasp    her    angel    semblance    'neath    the    palms  of 
Paradise. 


67 


THE    PHANTOM    LIGHTHOUSE. 

I   KNOW  not  where,  but  many  leagues  from  land, 
One  stormy  night,  our  valiant  ship  was  tossed  ; 
Loud  called  the  tempest,  and  on  every  hand, 

The  challenged  waters  gave  the  pass-word,  * «  Lost ! 

The  struggling  moon  broke  out  at  times,  and  beamed, 
Till  strangled  black  by  clouds  which   swiftly  drave. 

And  all  the  sea  with  writhing  demons  teemed 
That  urged  to  utmost  fury  wind  and  wave. 

Our  sails  swelled  full,  and  good  it  was  to  see 
How  nobly  to  her  course  the  vessel  clung; 

Sun-swart  and  trusty  mariners  were  we 
As  ever  into  whistling  rigging  sprung. 

Full  swelled  our  sails — a  lovely  sight  to  view — 
As  in  the  wind  we  scudded  fast  and  free, 

Lithe-limbed  and  hardy  was  our  gallant  crew. 
As  e'er  in  vessel  ventured  down  to  sea. 
68 


The  Phantom  Lighthouse, 

Off  port  nor  starboard  beam  —  ahead,  astern  — 
No  sign  of  passing  canvas  could  we  mark ; 

Far  as  my  straining  vision  could  discern, 
A  waste  of  waters  desolate  and  dark. 

We  drank  our  grog,  blithe-hearted,  to  the  toast : 

' « Long  live  the  skipper  ;    luck  attend  the  mate  ;  " 

Made  merry  we  o'er  scowling  ocean's  boast. 

And    dared  the  vengeful  powers  that  nursed  our  fate. 

There  was  a  time  when  decked  with  pennons  proud. 
Serene  we  split  the  harbor's  placid  tide ; 

But  on  that  night  the  tempest  menaced  loud, 

And  leagues  of  torn  seas  threatened  far  and  wide. 

I  leaned  me  o'er  the  bulwark  long,  when  lo ! 

Broke  bright  across  the  waves  a  scarlet  light ; 
I  raised  a  shout  of  gladness:    "Lighthouse,  ho!" 

Which  all  the  crew  resounded  with  their  might. 

And  then  we  manned  the  gear;    quick  to  obey 

Our  will,  the  good  ship  on  her  new  course  sped 

Swift,  while  the  yelling  demons  dashed  the  spray, 
Straight  for  the  beacon  light  that  flared  ahead. 

69 


The  Phantom  Lighthouse, 

I  think  of  it,  and  ghastly  I  grow  pale 

To  think  such  direful  thing  should  come  to  pass  ; 
An  hour  we  beat  before  the  raging  gale, 

But  ere  another  had  elapsed,  alas  ! 

While  yet  we  marked,  o'erjoyed,  the  lighthouse  loom, 
And  ready  made  to  anchor  safe  our  craft, 

A  noise  we  barkened,  like  the  crack  of  doom. 

The  light  went  out  and  all  the  demons  laughed. 

And  then  we  felt  an  awful  shock  amain  ; 

The  trembling  decks  gave  way  ;    the  ocean  tossed ; 
Some  cried,  ' «  God  save  us  ; "    others  swore  profane. 

The  heaving  sea  laconic  answered,  « »  Lost  !  " 

I  know  no  more ;    my  locks  are  white  and  thin. 

But  in  my  ears,  wherever  I  may  be, 
There  rings  forever  the  alluring  din 

Of  stormy  billows  surging  wild  and  free. 


70 


A    MOSAIC    FROM    THE    PSALMS. 

UPON  the  harp,  with  solemn  chord, 
Oh,  suffer  me  to  praise  the  Lord  ! 
He  walks  upon  the  tempest's  wing. 
And  from  His  tread  the  lightnings  spring  ; 
His  chariot  is  the  clouds  that  fly 
In  majesty  across  the  sky  ; 
The  mighty  floods  His  voice  obey, 
And  haste  at  His  rebuke  away  ; 
Exalt  His  glories,  O  my  soul  — 
His  honors  to  the  world  extol. 

Lord,  what  is  man  that  Thou  shouldst  be 
Compassionate  to  such  as  he  ? 
Didst  Thou  not  send  Thy  spirit  forth. 
What  were  his  frail  existence  worth  ? 
He'd  nightly  bathe  his  bed  with  tears. 
And  languish  through  unhappy  years  ; 
But  Thou,  from  Thine  almighty  palm 
Hast  pour'd  salvation's  soothing  balm. 
The  theme  is  charmful  to  my  heart 
To  sing  how  great,  how  good  Thou  art. 

71 


A  Mosaic  from  the  Psalms. 

Our  God  is  Love;    both  woe  and  weal 

His  sweet  benevolence  reveal ;  - 

Such  amplitude  of  grace  He  hath 

He  guides  our  feet  from  trouble's  path, 

By  tranquil  waters,  when,  in  truth, 

We  merit  everlasting  ruth. 

Change  not  Thine  equity  to  ire 

When  justice  calls  for  vengeance  dire, 

But  still,  O  gracious  Sovereign,  be 

The  Rock  to  which  we  all  may  flee. 

Soothed,  solac'di  by  Thy  saving  power,  ' 

I  call  upon  Thee  every  hour. 

Thy  loving  kindness  will  I  speak 

Till  death  shall  blanch  my  fevered  cheek  ; 

Shall  quench  the  lustre  of  mine  eye 

That,  prayerful,  turns  to  Thee,  on  high. 

When  in  impenetrable  shade. 

This  suffering  clay  is  senseless  laid, 

Then  shall  my  soul,  exulting,   soar. 

And  learn  to  love  and  praise  Thee  more  ! 


72 


THE    GOLDEN    ROD. 

THEY  flourish  on  the  uplands  high, 
And  in  the  valleys  low  ; 
In  marshy  places  and  in  dry, 

In  myriads  they  grow  ; 
On  many  a  soft  and  saffron  stalk 

They  beautify  the  sod. 
No  matter  where  we  chance  to  walk 
We  find  the  golden  rod. 

WhenfAutumn,  crown'd  with  yellow  weeds, 

And  wreathed  with  garlands  gay, 
In  blissful  indolence  proceeds 

Along  her  languid  way  ; 
Where'er  she  steps,  her  foot  enchants 

The  ground  whereon  she  treads, 
And  hosts  of  slender,  spiral  plants 

Uplift  their  regal  heads. 

How  bright  they  glisten  when  the  gleam 

Of  morning  on  them  lies  ; 
How  rare  and  beautiful  they  seem, 

Array'd  in  splendid  guise  ; 

73 


The  Golden  Rod. 

Not  Solomon,  in  his  select 

And  pompous  robes  of  power, 

Was  half  so  gorgeously  bedecked 
As  this  imperial  flower. 

The  rose  is  lovely  when  the  dew 

Shines  on  her  pearly  breast ; 
And  lovely  is  the  lily,  too. 

In  subtle  vesture  dress'd  ; 
The  daisy  looks  so  meek  and  chaste, 

Outpeeping  from  the  sod  — 
But  first  and  foremost  to  my  taste 

I  like  the  golden  rod. 

When  frost  descends,  and  breezes  fan 

The  woods,  no  longer  green, 
And  all  around  the  eye  may  scan 

The  stript.  Autumnal  scene  ; 
When,  far  and  wide,  on  every  tree 

The  lingering  leaflets  fade. 
The  golden  rod  we  still  may  see 

In  loveliest  tints  array'd. 


74 


The  Golden  Rod. 

And  bright  and  brighter  every  day 

It  shines  serenely  out, 
While  flowers  that  once  were  fresh  and  gay 

Are  dying  all  about. 
Thus  may  we,   too,  when  pleasures  wane  — 

In  sorrow's  gloomy  hour  — 
To  greater  loveliness  attain, 

Like  this  perennial  flower. 


75 


COME,   FILL    UP   THE   PIPE. 

COME,  fill  up  the  pipe  ;    there  is  joy  in  the  fume. 
There   never  were    comforts    the   equal  of   these  — 
To  sit  in  the  midst  of  the  smoke  in  the  room, 

And  loosen  your  fancy  and  puff  at  your  ease. 
With  a  sack  of  tobacco  in  reach  of  your  hand, 

The  scent  of  the  burning  weed  filling  the  air, 
Life  takes  on  a  color  that's  rosy  and  bland. 

For  the  pipe,  like  a  talisman,  charms  away  care. 

Come,  strike  us  a  match ;    as  the  sulphur  ignites 

With  a  sputter  and  spurt  of  its  delicate  fire. 
How  cheerful  the  glow  of  a  match  when  it  lights, 

And    the   flames    that   enwreath   it   rise   rosily  higher 
A  touch  to  the  pipe,  and  a  draw,  and  it's  lit ; 

You  sink  in  the  indolent  ease  of  your  chair. 
And  say,  as  you  swoon  to  the  glory  of  it, 

That  the  pipe,  like  a  talisman,  charms  away  care. 


76 


Come,  Fill  Up  the  Pipe. 

'Twas    sweet    to    count    o'er  the   fond    joys    of   the    glass, 

When  the  wine  in  its  crystal  depths  lent  it  a  hue  ; 
Or  to  reckon  the  rapture  of  loving  a  lass, 

When  the  moments  on  pinions  of  happiness  flew ; 
But  wine  is  a  mocker  and  woman  is  frail. 

The  pleasure  of  cither's  a  cheat  and  a  snare  ; 
But  here  is  a  solace  that  never  will  fail, 

For  the  pipe,  like  a  talisman,  charms  away  care. 

Come  hither,  old  smoker-folk,  grave  and  austere, 

I,  too,  am  a  votary,  fond  of  the  weed  ; 
And,  bringing  your  pipes,  you  have  nothing  to  fear  ; 

I  give  you  my  hand  —  we  are  brethren  indeed ; 
Let  us  bravely  endure  the  rude  world  and  its  shocks. 

And  when  life's  latest  spark  shall  go  out  —  in  the  end, 
Like  the  last  and  the  only  match  left  in  the  box, 

Our  souls,  like  the  smoke  of   our  pipes,   shall  ascend. 


77 


BEAUTY  IN  DECAY. 

DO  not  poets  always  say, 
» '  Things  are  fairest  in  decay  ?  " 
What  is  lovelier  than  the  sinking  sun  at  golden  close 

of  day! 
With  its  soft  vermilion  dyes, 
Waning  from  the  darkling  skies, 

Freshly  fair  may  be  the  morning, 
Fair  the  noontide,  but  the  day 
Wears  its  loveliest  adorning 
Just  before  it  fades  away. 

Look  where  fragile  lilies  lying 

Shredded  from  their  stems  are  dying, 

And  where  blooms  that   decked  the  branches  in  the 

withering  winds  are  flying ; 
And  where  heavy  roses  tossed, 
Languish  with  the  blight  of  frost. 
Are  they  not,  as  if  a  herald. 

Warns  them  that  decay  is  nigh. 
In  their  brightest  hues  appareled, 

Just  before  they  droop  and  die  ? 

78 


Beauty  in  Decay, 


Oh,  that  it  might  sometime  be 

Truly  said  of  you  and  me, 

That  our  spirits    grew   in    beauty    as    we  neared   the 

unknown  sea ; 
That  we  passed  from  Ufe  away, 
Quietly  as  the  fading  day  ; 

From  the  sins-  released  which  bound  us, 

All  our  merits  at  their  best. 
Robes  of  righteousness  around  us. 

Just  before  we  sank  to  rest. 


79 


GIANTS. 

WE  all  must  bear  the  battle's  brunt, 
And  have  Goliaths  to  confront; 
Boast  as  we  may,   we  meet  at  length 
The  giant  that  defies  our  strength ; 
Some  huge  despair,   some  bulky  rue, 
Which  we  must  combat  and  subdue. 
Like  him,  who  fearless  went  alone, 
And  slew  Goliath  with  a  stone  ! 

None  may  evade  it ;   every  path 
Is  menaced  by  a  giant  of  Gath  ! 
Tho'  high  on  fortune's  hill  we  pace, 
Or  be  we  moilers  at  the  base. 
All  must  descend  into  the  vale, 
And  win  the  victory,  or  fail ; 

God  help  us  who  go  forth  alone 
To  front  Goliath  with  a  stone. 

On  Life's  hard  field,  contending,  when 
Men  turn  oppressors  unto  men, 
Thrice  doth  he  triumph  o'er  his  foes 
Who  mingles  mercy  with  his  blows  ; 
And,  armed  to  stand  against  a  horde. 
Wields  but  the  weapons  of  the  Lord ; 
A  kindly  look,  a  gentle  tone. 
Have  slain  Goliath  like  a  stone  ! 
80 


TO  MADISON  CAWEIN. 

Herein  are  blown  from  out  the  south, 

Songs  blithe  as  those  of  Pan's  pursed  mouth. 

— James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

WERE  poesy's  chrism  on  my  lips  distilled 
And  in  her  magic  were  I  duly  skilled, 
It  were  a  pleasing  effort  to  rehearse 
Your  praises,  poet,  in  my  smoothest  verse. 
I  would  be  stringing  strands  of  pearly  words 
Sweet  as  the  minstrelsy  of  morning  birds, 
And  of  the  verses  which  I  thus  should  frame 
I'd  shape  a  lyric  to  your  splendid  fame ; 
One  that  would  ripple,  with  a  mellow  chime, 
O'er  shoals  of  rhythm  and  down  banks  of  rhyme. 

But  far  from  me  the  fickle  Muse  has  strayed, 
Nor  can  I  win  again  the  golden  maid 
To  light  her  frenzy  in  my  joyless  eyes ; 
Nor  on  the  wings  of  fancy  can  I  rise. 
And,  like  a  lark  on  fanning  feathers  strong, 
Cleave  the  clear  ether  of  the  fields  of  song. 
But  'twere  in  vain;  a  worthier  pen  than  mine 
Has  paid  its^  tribute  to  your  lyre  divine, 
8i 


To  Madison  Cawein, 

With  apt  allusions  and  with  quaint  conceits, 
Fit  to  have  glittered  from  the  quill  of  Keats, 
Has  told  how  beautifully  from  out  the  South, 
Your    songs    were    wafted    as    » '  from    Pan's    pursed 
mouth." 

Fain  would  I  fashion  for  your  Muse's  glory, 
A  song  as  blithesome  and  as  laudatory  ; 
Fain  in  the  language  of  my  cordial  heart 
My  admiration  and  esteem  impart. 
But  when  to  poesy  I  feel  inclined, 
And  flowery  visions  hover  in  my  mind. 
And  I  would  write  them  ere  they  flit  and  fade. 
My  numbers  stammer,  and  my  pen's  dismayed. 
And,  to  my  shame,  my  feeble  verses  stand 
Cold  and  unlike  the  language  I  had  planned. 
Thus  many  a  fine  opinion,  which  I  cherish 
About  your  lovely  verses  needs  must  perish; 
Many  a  fancy  which  I  fain  would  write, 
Slips  from  the  trammels  of  my  phrases  light. 
And  by  the  margin  of  my  murmuring  lay 
Lingers  a  moment  and  is  blurred  away ; 
Swift  as  a  naiad,  in  her  garlands  fair. 
Fades  from  a  fountain  and  is  lost  in  air. 
82 


To  Madison  Cawein, 

Oft  have  I  wondered  in  what  halcyon  clime, 
Your  fancy  revels  in  its  quest  for  rhyme ; 
Whither  your  thoughts,  like  golden  bees,  may  throng, 
And  sip  the  honey  of  immortal  song  ; 
Oft  have  I  marveled  in  what  secret  spot, 
What  Delphian  cavern  or  Arcadian  grot. 
Rises,  exhaustless  as  a  mountain  spring, 
The  inspiration  of  the  songs  you  sing ; 
Oft  have  I  wondered  from  what  source  unknown 
You  gleaned  the  inklings  of  your  •' Gloramone" ; 
In  what  far  region,  pure  and  undefiled, 
« «  Lyanna  "  first  upon  your  vision  smiled  ; 
And  where  "  Noera "  with  her  «<  laughing,  clear. 
Loved  voice  of  old,"  delighted  first  your  ear. 
Was  it  not,  poet,  in  those  blest  domains. 
Those  hallowed  realms,  where  heaven-bom  genius  reigns, 
And  have  you  not,  on  many  a  happy  flight, 
Winged  blissful  visits  to  those  bowers  of  light  ? 
The  birds  have  seen  you,  and  the  wandering  bees 
Beheld  you  frequent  on  those  fadeless  leas. 
And  oft  with  trophies,  in  your  gleaming  hand. 
Of  flowers  that  blossom  in  no  other  land, 
You've  come  with  beauties  that  we  deem  so  fair, 
We  count  you  worthy  to  have  sojourned  there. 
83 


FEAST  OF  SHELLS  — FROM  OSSIAN. 

WHEN  Fingal,  from  the  wars  victorious  came, 
The  harps  of  Selma  trembled  with  his  fame, 
Like  sounds  that  thunder,  and  are  heard  no  more, 
On  Crona's  banks,  the  stubborn  strife  was  o'er ; 
Stilled  was  contention's  noise ;   the  sandy  plains 
No  longer  red  with  battle's  bloody  stains, 
Peace,  like  a  seraph,  from  her  hallowed  hand. 
Poured  healing's  ointment  on  the  stricken  land, 
Soothed  the  distracted  country,  eased  its  throes. 
Till  full  fruition  blossom'd  like  the  rose  ! 

The  lamps  were  trimmed,  when  eve  in  sombre  guise. 

Came  darkly  wandering  o'er  the  russet  skies, 

The  beam  was  spread,  'mid  music's  rapturous  swells ; 

In  Ullin's  halls,  was  set  the  feast  of  shells. 

The  guests  arrived,  with  tumult  of  acclaim, 

The  clansipen  gathered,  and  the  courtiers  came  — 

Shepherds  and  yeomen  from  their  fields  afar. 

And  chiefs  assembled  from  the  seats  of  war; 


Feast  of  Shells — from  Ossian. 

All,  all  were  met,  and  every  bosom  burned 
To  welcome  Fingal  to  his  realms  returned. 
Up  rose  a  minstrel,  venerable  and  pale, 
His  words  were  valiant,  tho'  his  limbs  were  frail  ; 
Him  did  the  years  in  kindly  reverence  spare, 
While  snowed  their  winters  in  his  hoary  hair ; 
Wise  was  his  counsel,  though  his  lips  were  wan, 
And  silence  settled  when  his  speech  began. 

"Home  from  the  North,  from  battle's  mighty  shocks, 
The  King  hath  come  with  all  his  heavy  locks  ; 
Dark  was  his  conflict  with  the  heathen  horde. 
But  sheathed  in  victory  was  his  flashing  sword  ; 
Now  let  the  songs  be  raised,  the  choral  sound 
Reverberate  these  spacious  walls  around  ; 
Not  the  loud  slogan,  nor  the  anthem  strong, 
Nor  stately  metres  of  the  martial  song, 
But  sing  some  soft,  some  soul-subduing  air 
To  soothe  the  monarch,  and  assuage  his  care. 
When  Winter  ends  and  all  his  tempests  hush. 
Sweet  is  the  warble  of  the  vernal  thrush. 
So,  after  War's  discordant  clarions  cease. 
Sweet  are  the  soothing  melodies  of  peace." 

85 


Feast  of  Shells — from  Ossian. 

Such  were  his  words ;  and,  sudden,  at  the  pause, 

Peal  after  peal  prolonged  the  loud  applause. 

Then  woke  from  dallied  wires  a  light  refrain 

As,  after  thunder,  falls  the  tinkhng  rain 

Mellow  and  soothing  —  straightway  every  tongue, 

Commingling  soft,  a  song  of  anguish  sung  — 

A  song  of  sorrow  of  the  olden  times, 

Shrined  by  some  minstrel  in  his  plaintive  rhymes, 

A  lay  of  woe,  of  true  love  come  to  grief. 

The  words  were  simple  and  the  song  was  brief: 

Asleep  lies  my  hunter  yonder 

With  moss  on  his  burial  stone ; 
Alone  through  the  woods  I  wander, 

I  wander  the  hills  alone  ; 
And  muse  on  a  morn,  when  flurried 

He  kist  my  lips  farewell, 
And  away  to  the  wars  he  hurried, 

Where  slain  in  the  ranks  he  fell ; 
Gra'mercy  !  my  spirit  is  sorest 

Of   all  that  grief  hath  bewrayed, 
Since  I  wander  alone  thro'  the  forest 

Where  my  true  love  is  laid. 

86 


Feast  of  Shells  — from  Ossian, 

What  shall  I  do,  my  hunter  ! 

Since  thou  art  cold  in  clay  ? 
Alone  through  the  woods  I  saunter, 

And  sorrow  the  live-long  day ; 
Now  hardly  the  lithe  deer  poises 

His  listening  head,  as  I  go ; 
He  dreads  no  more  the  noises 

When  redolent  winds  a-blow 
Sweep  through  the  foliage  sighing, 

Wail  through  the  naked  heath. 
For  thou  in  the  wilderness  lying, 

Art  pale  in  the  sleep  of  death  ! 

The  king  stood  silent  till  the  song  was  o'er. 
And  stillness  lengthened  on  the  scene  once  more ; 
His  softened  gaze  the  vast  assembly  scanned, 
The  scepter  trembled  in  his  shaking  hand ; 
His  head  dropped  forward  and  his  massive  crown 
Was  well-nigh  toppled  from  its  station  down  ; 
The  crowd  look'd  on,  with  wonder  and  surprise. 
For  tears  were  falling  from  the  conqueror's  eyes  ! 


87 


THE  BATTLE  — IN  OSSIAN. 

THERE  where  the  roses  reveled  and  the  violets  grew, 
The  warriors  and  the  minstrels,  crowding  'round, 
With  heavy  hearts  and  solemn  funeral  songs, 
Laid  to  their  everlasting  rest 
The  pallid  relics  of  the  mighty  Chieftain. 

All  day  the  combat  raged,  and  gathering  night 
Saw  no  cessation  of  the  furious  fight ; 
Like  mountain  torrents,  from  their  summits  poured. 
The  crimson  billows  of  contention  roared  ; 
Steel  clashed  on  steel,  and  radiantly  around 
The  moon's  fair  lustre  lit  the  sanguine  ground. 
From  clouds  emerging,  like  a  shield  of  gold. 
Serenely  soft,  the  evening  planet  rolled. 
Fringing  the  peaks  that,  darkly  frowning,  rose 
With  beams  as  vestal  as  their  virgin  snows. 
She  turned  her  rays,  with  mild  effulgence  rife, 
Broad  on  that  valley  of  tumultuous  strife. 
Appall'd  and  startled  by  the  thunderous  crash 
The  prowling  foxes  vanish'd  like  a  flash; 
Flitting,  as  usual,  thro'  the  moonlight  gray. 
The  owlet  burst,  on  frighten'd  wings,  away  ; 

88 


The  Battle  —  in  Ossian, 

And  many  a  bat  upon  its  passage  wheel'd 
And  sped  in  terror  from  the  dinsome  field ; 
While  only  one,  War's  ignominious  bird, 
The  vulture,  view'd  the  battle  scene  unstirr'd, 
And,  calmly  gloating  from  his  eyry  high, 
Craned  his  thin  neck,  and  look'd  with  quiet  eye. 

For  well  he  reckon'd,  when  the  morning  ray 
Revealed  the  issue  of  that  fearful  fray, 
Full  many  a  corse,  beneath  the  soaring  sun 
Would  shrink  and  shrivel  when  the  strife  was  done, 
Their  bleeding  veins  the  thirsty  turf  should  lave, 
And  splash  the  flowerets  with  their  ruddy  wave. 
But  never  more  should  towering  heights  behold 
Such  floods  of  slaughter  o'er  the  verdure  roU'd, 
Should  never  witness,  on  the  blooming  plain. 
The  flowers  besprinkled  with  so  red  a  rain. 
And  softly  mantled  in  impassive  snow. 
Survey  such  carnage  in  the  vale  below. 
For  now  was  Fingal,  with  his  clansmen  brown, 
Swoop'd  like  the  eagle  from  the  Highlands  down. 
Fresh  from  the  triumphs  of  his  northern  raid. 
With  victory  kindling  on  his  trenchant  blade, 

89 


The  Battle  —  in  Ossian. 

By  conquest  dazzled,  and  impelled  by  fame, 
His  numbers  swelling  as  he  conquering  came, 
Here  face  to  face,  the  craven  foe  he  dared, 
Arranged  his  legions  and  for  strife  prepared, 
While  Selma's  welfare,  on  that  fatal  day. 
Was  staked  and  pendent  on  the  final  fray. 

Who  would  have  fancied,  ere  the  morrow's  sheen 

Had  softly  twinkled  on  the  dewy  scene, 

Ere  dawn  approached,  or  night  was  on  the  wane, 

And  day  fell  rosy  on  the  fatal  plain, 

Stretch'd  on  the  turf,  the  mangled  chief  should  lie 

With  death's  cold  pallor  in  his  azure  eye  ? 

But  as  the  bolts,  from  smiling  skies,  descend, 

So,  undivined,  the  plans  of  fate  impend ; 

The  hour  arrived,  when  many  a  whistling  spear 

Had  passed  him  harmless  in  its  mad  career. 

When  many  a  claymore  on  that  clattering  field 

Had  clashed  its  stricture  in  his  blazon'd  shield. 

One  deadly  shaft,  one  death-bewinged  dart, 

Ensheathed  its  sliver  in  his  gallant  heart. 

Just  at  the  moment  when  his  clansmen's  shout 

Told  that  the  foe  was  put  at  last  to  rout ; 

90 


The  Battle—  in  Ossian, 

When  clarions  rang  and  banners  blew  on  high 
He  caught  the  fervor  of  the  battle  cry, 
And  with  the  life-blood  streaming  from  his  side, 
Exultant  shook  his  batter'd  shield,  and  died  ! 

Oh,  never  more,  with  plume  and  pennon  gay, 

Shall  Fingal  rally  to  the  wild  foray  ; 

No  more,  bold  dashing  with  his  dauntless  band, 

O'erwhelm  his  foemen  with  avenging  hand. 

Let  Selma's  sons  their  heavy  loss  declare, 

And  weeping  maids  their  willow  garlands  wear. 

Mourn,  gentle  dames,  indulge  the  briny  rain 

Since  he  in  sooth  the  sweetest  prince  is  slain. 

Fallen  like  the  bay-tree  when  the  tempest  lowers 

And  blasts  its  verdure  in  its  palmiest  powers ; 

Let  Selma  mourn,  let  every  eye  be  dim. 

For  who  could  lead  her  glorious  hosts  like  him  ? 

* 
Who,  like  himself,  the  sturdy  bow  could  bend. 

And  to  its  mark  the  singing  arrow  send  ? 

Tho'  prone  to  peace,  to  combat  ever  loth, 

He  bore  himself  conspicuous  in  both. 

And,  widely  noted  for  pacific  charms. 

Was  also  famous  for  his  feats  of  arms  ! 

91 


The  Battle — in  Ossian, 

Illustrious  Chief,  his  earthly  struggles  o'er, 
His  flowing  plume  salutes  the  gale  no  more. 
For  when  the  morn  rose  radiant  and  serene, 
And  strewed  its  splendor  on  the  crystal  scene  ; 
When  thro'  the  wood  the  wind  was  heard  to  sigh 
And  breathe  its  tribute  as  it  wandered  by, 
Stretch'd  on  his  shield,  and  garlanded  with  rue, 
They  laid  his  relics  where  the  roses  grew. 
And,  round  about,  the  weeping  minstrels  thronged. 
And  high  and  loud,  the  funeral  notes  prolonged. 
Then,  as  the  covering  on  his  bosom  fell, 
The  kneeling  warriors^  kissed  his  lips  farewell. 
Trailed  all  their  banners  and  reversed  their  spears. 
And  loos'd  the  current  of  their  copious  tears. 
Thus,  undisturbed,  where  flowers  luxuriant  spring, 
Repose  the  ashes  of  the  honored  king ; 
Where  roses  revel  and  where  violets  blow. 
The  chief  of  Selma  slumbers  pale  and  low. 


FINGAL'S  GRAVE. 

OFT  have  I  seen  the  spot  of  his  repose 
Whose   might    all    men    acknowledged — Morven' 
chief, 
Fingal,  once  glorious,  but  departed  now, 
The  most  deplored  of  our  lamented  kings. 
He  was  a  hero  of  illustrious  fields, 
Deeds,  memorable  in  story  and  in  song, 
Made  his  career  a  meteor's  path  of  flame, 
And  treble  darkness  marked  his  beam's   eclipse. 
He  was  a  beacon  to  the  known  world ;  at  last. 
By  Tarno's  lake,  beneath  an  ancient  oak. 
Green-folded  in  earth's  lap,  we  saw  him  laid. 
And  where  he  rests  the  thistles  flourish  rife. 
The  long  grass  waves,  and  o'er  his  listless  head. 
One  straggling  rose-bush  shakes  its  single  bloom 
In  the  unfrequent  blast.     These  bounds  comprise. 
These  narrow  bounds,  the  whole  of  his  demesne 
Who  once  possessed  wide  empire.      Oh,  observe 

93 


FingaVs  Grave, 

To  what  small  space  may  mightiness  contract, 
To  what  proportions  glory  be  compressed, 
And  majesty  restricted,  when,  like  this. 
For  all  his  pomp,  his  greatness,  his  renown, 
I  compass  with  three  steps  his  grave. 

Four  grey  stones 
Inclose  the  spot  where  Fingal  sleeps  profound  ; 
Waves  wash  the  shore  at  intervals  and  moan. 
And  water-fowl  pipe  shrilly  'mid  the  reeds. 
The  kingfisher's  brilliant  plumage  is  discerned; 
The  thin  crane's  sombre  crest,  and  o'er  the  waves, 
Majestically,  a  wild  swan  drifts  in  pride. 

A  hare  leaps  sudden  from  the  grass  and  hears 
No  sound  to  fright  him  to  his  lair  again ; 
He  gambols  on  the  green-sward  undisturbed. 
One  might  not  know  a  warrior  slept  beneath, 
Who  shook  defiance  on  a  thousand  fields. 
And  spread  tumultuous  terror  'mongst  his  foes. 
Since  now  not  even  the  timorous  hare  has  dread, 
Stands  in  no  awe  of  him,  nor  fears  him  more, 
While  frequent  from  the  wildwoods  stalk  the  deer 
To  crop  the  green  grass  o'er  his  senseless  breast. 

94 


FingaVs  Grave. 


Here  came  full  oft,  more  lovely  for  her  grief, 

The  sorrowing  beauty  of  Slimora's  isle, 

Her  cheek  suffused  with  tears.     The  twain  loved  well 

His  eyes  that  flashed  fierce  anger  in  the  feud, 

Had  oft  with  tender  love-gaze  dwelt  on  hers, 

And  his  strong  arm  that  hurled  remorseless  death, 

She  oft  had  leaned  on  in  his  tranquil  hours. 

Thus  musing  long  beside  his  quiet  grave. 

At  such  times  in  her  agony  she  seemed, 

The  while  she  bowed,  out-pouring  her  pent  heart. 

The  embodiment  of  beautiful  despair. 

O  incarnation  of  most  lovely  woe. 

Oft  have  I  seen  thee  kneeling  thus,  the  while, 

Silk- soft  thy  tresses  by  the  winds  were  gathered, 

Themselves  as  weightless  as  the  moon-lit  mist. 


95 


ENCHANTMENT. 

I    DREAMED  I  stood  with  her  I  love, 
Fondly  my  arms  did  her  entwine  ; 
Her  eyes  no  longer  did  reprove, 

But  looked  with  tenderness  in  mine. 

We  heard  the  billows'  slumberous  sound. 
And  caught  the  briny  breath  of  gales, 

And  presently,  methought,  we  found 
A  shallop ;  and  we  loos'd  the  sails. 

Close-reefed,  beneath  the  oval  moon, 

We  steered  thro'  seas  our  foaming  way. 

To  love's  elysium  wafted  soon, 

Bright-isled,  amid  perpetual  spray. 

Whence  issued  harmonies  divine. 

Miraculous  the  shores  along. 
And  birds  that  blazed  in  plumage  fine, 

Far  inland,   poured  enchanting  song. 
96       . 


Enchantment. 

There  by  me  stood,   sedately  fair, 

Thoughout  a  space  of  blissful  hours, 

My  love  with  lilies    in  her  hair, 
A  naiad  'mid  the  ocean-flowers. 

Ah,   dearest,   on  that  distant  coast, 
Unfailing  rapture  thrilled  my  mind 

That  thou  wast,   whom  I  love  the  most, 
For  once,   in  all  love's  annals,   kind. 

No  doubtful  word  to  misconstrue 

Escaped  us  ;  pleasant  was  our  speech  ; 

And  soul  to  soul  so  close  we  grew. 
No  space  existed  for  a  breach. 

But  perfect  unity  prevailed 

Between  us,   and  our  hearts  were  light, 
Tho'  far  across  the  waters  sailed. 

Our  shallop,   fading  out  of  sight. 

Wound  thus  in  love's  delightful  trance. 
We  fain  had  dwelt  for  evermore. 

But  morning  shook  her  silver  lance. 
And  slumber's  witchery  was  o'er. 

97 


i« ABSENCE  CAN  NOT  CONQUER  LOVE.' 

ABSENCE  can  not  conquer  love, 
.     Futile  must  her  efforts  be, 
Wheresoever  thou  may'st  rove, 
I  will  still  remember  thee. 

Treasuring  fondly  in  my  heart, 
Every  day  the  tender  prayer. 

That  no  matter  where  thou  art. 

Thou  may'st  richest  blessings  share. 

When  the  sun  descending  dips 
'Neath  the  rosy-mantled  west, 

With  thy  name  upon  my  lips, 
Sweetly  will  I  go  to  rest. 

Fortune  shield  thy  life  from  ill, 
Joy  and  pleasure  be  thy  lot, 

Absent  but  remembered  still, 
Never  shalt  thou  be  forgot. 


98 


SONG. 

COME,  let  thy  beaming  eyes  be  bent 
On  me  with  soften'd  ray, 
Speak  something  of  encouragement 

To  banish  my  dismay. 
And  charm  from  off  my  spirit  bleak 

The  shadow  there  that  lies  ; 
Oh,  let  me  hear  thee  softly  speak 
And  see  thy  glorious  eyes. 

I've  loved  thee  fondly  from  the  first, 

I've  loved  thee  best  of  all. 
But  on  my  spirit,  parched  with  thirst, 

No  dews  of  pity  fall. 
The  fawn  upon  the  flowery  plains, 

Where  cooling  waters  pour. 
May  slake  his  thirst,   but  mine  remains 

Unquenched  forever  more. 

99 


Song, 

Then  come,   my  little  love,  my  life, 

Speak  peace  to  my  despair, 
I'm  torn  with  anguish  —  tossed  with  strife 

Too  rough  for  me  to  bear; 
And,   blown  by  many  a  baffling  gale 

Thro'  angry  seas  I  rove  ; 
Oh,   let  me  in  thy  favor  sail, 

And  anchor  in  thy  love. 

If  one  more  blest  than  I  should  hold 

Thy  love  for  which  I  crave. 
Oh,   lay  me  'neath  the  myrtle  cold 

With  lilies  on  my  grave  ; 
And  may  it  sometimes  come  to  pass 

That  thou  wilt  softly  go, 
Letting  thy  tears  fall  on  the  grass 

Where  I  am  sleeping  low. 


loo 


AN    AUGUST    DAY. 

WE  scraped  the  clinging  moss  away, 
And  deep  into  the  stone 
We  cut  our  names,  love,   and  the  day 

We  hither  came  alone ; 
An  August  day,   so  fair  and  dry, 
With  white  clouds  piled  against  the  sky, 

And  breezes  faintly  blown ; 
And  humming  in  the  summer  trees 
On  every  hand  were  honey-bees. 

I  knew  you  feared  to  venture,  pet, 

Out  on  the  narrow  edge, 
I  caught  you  in  my  arms  and  set 

Your  feet  upon  the  ledge  ; 
And  leaning  o'er  the  dizzy  height 
I  held  you  to  my  bosom  tight, 

And  heard  you  speak  the  pledge 
That  sooner  might  the  firm  rocks  move 
Than  you  should  cease  to  be  my  love. 


An  August  Day. 

Above  us  clustered  berries  bent, 
The  long  vines  swaying  slow, 
And  let  thro'  many  a  loop  and  rent 

The  liquid  sunshine  flow ; 
It  flecked  your  lovely  hair,  and  rolled 
From  tress  to  tress  in  waves  of  gold, 

Then  falling  far  below, 
I  saw  it  dancing  on  the  cool. 
Clear  waters  in  the  valley  pool. 

I  wish  —  I  wish  when  earthly  things 

Shall  darken  from  my  sight. 
That  hovering  o'er  on  spirit  wings 

The  radiant  gates  of  light, 
We  still  may  this  fair  scene  behold, 
Transmuted  into  shining  gold, 

Bearing  in  letters  bright 
Our  names,  thus  graven,   and  the  day 
You  promised  to  be  mine  alway. 


IN    THE    GREENWOOD. 

J'nr^  IS  pleasant  when  the  woods  are  green  and  flowers 

•JL       gem  the  ground 
To  seek  the  woodland's  shady  haunts,  where  many  charms 

abound ; 
On  reckless  wings  the  songsters  flit  and  twitter  as  they  fly, 
And  moss-beset  the  fern-fringed  brook  forever  ripples  by. 
On  some  lithe  sprig  that  overhangs  the  path  thro'  which 

you  go 
The  screaming  thrush,   with  wings  aloft,  rocks  fiercely  to 

and  fro ; 
Then   bend   the  pliant  bushes   down,   and  you  will   likely 

view, 
All  in  their  nice,  secreted  nest,  her  eggs  of  shining  blue. 

At  your  approach  the  timid  fawn  springs  gracefully  away. 

And  breaking  twigs  and  rustling  leaves  his  hurried  flight 
betray ; 

Up  some  old  oak  tree's  solemn  height,  that  gnarled,  mon- 
archal, ranks 

The  squirrels  crack  their  acorn  balls  and  play  their  artless 

pranks. 

103 


In  the  Greenwood. 

The   ring-dove,    in    the    blasted    elm,    perched   'mid    the 

mantling  vines, 
Pours  forth    her   hurt   heart   to  her   mate  and  dolorously 

pines ; 
The    pheasant    drums    the    hollow  log,    a  general    silence 

reigns. 
Then  breaks  a  clear,   sharp  treble   forth,  the  mock-bird's 

thrilling  strains. 

There  is  a  fever  in  your  heart  which   nature  can  dispel, 

A  balsam  in  the  balmy  wood  will  make  your  spirit  well. 

Go  when  the  early  dewdrops  fall,  and  woo  with  easeful 
grace 

The  pure,  sweet  air,  the  living  green,  the  freshness  of 
the  place. 

If  perfect  freedom  you  would  find  and  languorous  uncon- 
cern. 

Where  not  a  sorrow  can  intrude  to  cause  your  breast  to 
burn, 

Go  seek  the  woodland's  shady  haunts,  where  many  charms 
abound  — 

In  suminer,  when  the  woods  are  green  and  flowers  gem 
the  ground. 

104 


THE  MOCCASIN. 

V  A  /T'^  covert  is  'neath  the  water  weed, 

IVX    Where  the  lapsing  current  stays  its  speed, 
And  the  brook's  blue  width  is  my  broad  demesne, 
'Mid  growths  of  lush-grown  mosses  green, 
And  the  wind,  that  voices  odorous  chants. 
Sweeps  thro'  my  cool,   sweet  peppermint  plants. 

Coiled  'round  a  briony's  pensile  stem, 

By  the  banks  which  marshy  blossoms  gem, 

I  loll'd  thro'  the  long,   dull  afternoon. 

And  listened  the  easeful  waters  croon. 

And  swayed,   as  the  blue  wave  heaved  or  fell. 

With  my  head  thrust  deep  in  a  lily's  bell. 

When  sloth  in  my  dark  blood  thinned  and  died, 
I  dropped  my  length  on  the  plashing  tide. 
And  cleft,   like  the  track  of  an  arrowy  beam, 
My  wavy  progress  across  the  stream ; 
And  mounting  bubbles  now  burst  their  beads 
Where  I  sank  to  fny  covert  of  water- weeds. 


105 


JACK    SHEPPARD. 

JACK  SHEPPARD  was  an  artist 
In  his  peculiar  line; 
A  kinder  friend  at  a  table's  end 
Ne'er  sat  him  down  to  dine  ; 
Among  the  great  and  famous 
His  name  will  surely  shine. 

'Tis  passing  sad  that  I  must  add 

He  had  one  grievous  fault. 
'Twas  a  trait  of  his  on  the  lonely  road 

To  make  some  pilgrim  halt ; 
To  seize  the  sack  from  a  traveler's  back, 

And  thereby  earn  his  salt. 

He  needed  what  was  needful 

For  mortals  here  below ; 
To  make  a  haul  of  the  wherewithal 

He  let  his  victims  know 
Rather  than  trouble  the  morgue  they'd  best 

Deliver  their  goods  and  go. 

io6 


Jack  Sheppard, 


Jack  Sheppard's   memory  merits 

That  it  be  here  averred 
That,  tho'  he  had  his  failings, 

Whereof  the  world  has  heard, 
He  was  a  courteous  gentleman 

In  thought  and  deed  and  word. 

O,   like  as  not,   some  kindly  eye 

With  pitying  tears  grew  dim, 
And,  like  as  not,   some  gentle  heart 

In  silence  ached  for  him, 
As,  in  the  hangman's  cart,  he  went. 

The  halter  on  his  knee, 
Thro'  wind  and  rain,   in  Tyburn  Lane, 

To  grace  the  gallows-tree  ! 


107 


AN   UNSEASONABLE  SONG. 

SPARE  those  rich  strains  we  long  have  heard, 
This  morn  upon  yon  leafless  spray; 
It  is  not  Spring,  thou  warbling  bird, 

Though  wintry  clouds  be  cleared  away. 

It  is  not  Spring,  though  soft  and  fair 
The  sunlight  falls  upon  thy  wing. 

And  warmly  floods  the  amber  air. 
With  idle  promises  of  Spring. 

The  breeze  upon  its  flight  serene 

In  vain  for  flowers  may  search  and  call, 

For  cold,   dry  winds  will  whistle  keen. 
And  deep  the  muffling  snow  yet  fall. 

What  though,  prophetic  of  her  flight. 

Oft  Winter  lift  her  dreary  wing ; 
And,   merciful,  withhold  her  blight, 

A  little  space  ?  It  is  not  Spring. 
io8 


An  Unseasonable  Song, 

Then  cease  thy  strains  to  warble  forth, 
For  Winter  will  not  hark  thy  song, 

And  heedless  of  thee,   in  the  north, 

The  storm  is  gathering  wild  and  strong. 

Thus,   o'er  our  heads,   if  fate's  dark  cloud 

Be  parted  to  the  sunlight    bland. 
We,   too,   exult  with  voices  loud, 

And  think  a  fairer  day  at  hand. 

Even  whilst  through  prospects  stripped  and  drear, 

Cold,   wintry  blasts  begin  to  ring. 
And  'reft  of  hope,   devoid  of  cheer, 

Like  thee,   we,   too,   despair  of  Spring. 


109 


NIGHTFALL. 

BLOOMS  fold  on  which  the  dew  has  dripped, 
The  fire-flies  wing  their  sparkhng  flight ; 
Behind  the  west  the  sun  has  dipped, 
And  tranquil  falls  the  friendly  Night. 

Sweet  freights  of  downy  sleep  she  brings, 
Spreads  peace  along  her  quiet  way. 
And  scatters  from  her  sable  wings 
Calm  joys  which  are  denied  by  day. 

With  all  thy  mighty  grace  uncurbed, 
Dear  Night,   thy  balmy  realms  restore  ; 
Shed  down  upon  our   hearts  perturbed. 
Sleep's  dewy  anodyne  once  more. 

Oh,   have  I  not  my  share  of  grief, 
That  bows  my  heart,  that  drains  mine  eye  ! 
But  when  Night  comes  with  sweet  relief, 
I  kiss  the  cheek  of  Care,  good-bye. 


no 


IN  A  COPY  OF   BLOOMFIELD'S  POEMS. 


H 


E  who  these  homely  verses  framed, 
Was  once  in  England  widely  famed. 


An  humble  bard;    his  songs  he  made 
While  working  at  the  cobbler's  trade. 

Think  not,   sweet  follower  of  the  Nine, 
To  find  his  verse  as  smooth  as  thine. 

Unpolished,   crude,   ungraced  with  art. 
It  yet  flowed  warmly  from  his  heart. 

Ah,  though  his  work  is  prized  no  more, 
Let  us  who  treasure  poet-lore  ; 

Let  us  to  whom  the  Muse  is  kind, 
Still  bear  him  lovingly  in  mind. 


Ill 


OMAR  KHAYYAM. 


I. 


FAME'S  nightingales,  with  most  melodious  tongue, 
Within  the  gardens  of  achievement  winging, 
Of  old  Khayyam,   their  favorite  rose,   have  sung, 
Seven  centuries  now,  and  still  to-day  are  singing. 


II. 

His  fame,  recovered  from  the  gulfing  past. 

Spared  like  the  Afrite  in  the  vessel's  prison, 

Whom  Time,  the  Prophet,   in  the  flood  had  cast, 
A  mighty  fabric  of  renown,  has  risen. 

While  many  a  pillar  which  was  builded  high. 
In  Omar's  day,  the  winds  of  heaven  defying. 

Has  like  the  Sultan  and  his  pomp  gone  by. 
And  left  but  ashes  in  the  desert  lying. 


QUATRAINS. 

FAIRIES. 

ACROSS  the  garden  flits  the  fairy  crew, 
.  Such  varied  tasks  the  morning  hath  in  store, 
They  fling  abroad  the  jewels  of  the  dew, 

And  spread  the  flowers  to  the  sun  once  more. 

THE    SIREN. 

With  sea-weed  hair  that  mocks  the  emerald  wave. 
Singing  she  comes,   and  beckons  from  the  shore, 

Luring  some  lover  to  a  watery  grave, 

Whom  friends  and  kindred  shall  behold  no  more. 

DEAD    HOPES. 

Within  yon  forest  where  I  walked  of  late, 
Seeing  the  dead  leaves  flying  in  the  gust, 

I  thought  of  hopes  which  meet  a  kindred  fate, 
Torn  from  the  heart,   and  trodden  in  the  dust. 

"3 


Quatrains. 


THE   UNATTAINABLE. 

The  star  upon  the  mountain,  high  and  bleak, 
Straight  to  its  light  the  summit  seems  to  go, 

By  toil  and  patience  men  have  gained  the  peak, 
But  not  the  star  which  lured  them  from  below. 

KEATS. 

"Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  bird," 
He  sang,  whose  fame  immortal  shall  prevail  ; 
The  sweetest  voice  that  England  yet  had  heard, 
His  only  rival  was  the  nightingale. 

TOIL. 

There  is  a  slave  to  Fortune's  magic  lamp, 
The  Afrite,   Toil,   who,   if  we  choose  to  try 

His  skill,   will  open  caverns  deep  and  damp. 

And  point  the  place  where  hidden  treasures  lie. 

DEATH. 

Like  some  good  Caliph,   his  domain  the  World, 
Death  rides  abroad,  and  looking  on  we  see, 

For  all  the  terror  of  his  flags  unfurled. 

He  only  speaks  to  set  some  captive  free. 
114 


Quatrains, 


THE    RED    ROSE. 

This  blood-red  rose  was  one  time  white  as  snow  ; 

I  know  the  secret  of  its  crimson  stain  ; 
In  this  same  flower  it  chanced  once  long  ago, 

Two  fairies  slept,  and  in  their  dreams  were  slain. 

CHIVALRY. 

Here  is  a  story  of  the  feudal  days  : 

A  maiden  from  her  kindred  torn  apart 

Droops  in  a  dungeon,  and  a  plum'd  knight  lays 
Siege  to  the  prison  and  the  maiden's  heart. 

CONSCIENCE. 

'Rest,   rest,   perturbed  spirit,"  Hamlet  spake 

To  the  sad  Ghost  that  would  not  lie  resigned  ; 
So  Conscience  speaks,  when  troubled  and  awake. 
The  Spectre  of  Remorse  disturbs  the  mind. 

TRAGEDY. 

Midnight  the  hour ;    behold,   a  gondolier  ; 

The  scene  is  Venice ;    'tis  a  gala  night ; 
Two  lovers  whispering,  —  and  the  rival  near,  — 

Surprised ;    the  duel ;    and  the  murderer's  flight. 

"5 


Quatrains, 


RICHARD    III. 

One  tyrannous  and  bloody  act  has  power 
To  make  a  name  detested  for  all  time  ; 

The  slaughter  of  the  sweet  babes  in  the  Tower, 
Of  his  foul  record  was  the  crowning  crime. 

HOPE. 

Beyond  our  reach,   and  like  a  priceless  token, 
The  bauble  Hope  lures  glittering  and  fair ; 

A  moment  more,  and  like  a  bubble  broken, 
Crushed  by  a  breath,  it  perishes  in  air. 

RILEY. 

Not  like  the  Lark  that  mounting  blithe  and  strong 
Seeks  but  to  chant  to  some  diviner  sphere; 

But  like  the  Thrush,   he  sings  a  lowlier  song. 
Of  simpler  beauty,  for  the  Earth  to  hear. 


ii6 


THE  HEALER. 

CALM,  majestical,   He  stands ; 
Healing  in  His  potent  hands; 
Here  a  blind  Bartimeus  cries, 
««  Rabbi,   ope  my  sightless  eyes"; 
There  a  leper,   vile  and  mean, 
Plucks  His  garment,   and  is  clean. 
None  who  seek  are  e'er  denied, 
But  their  wants  are  all  supplied. 

Mortal,   dost  thou  covet  peace  ? 
He  who  bade  the  tempest  cease, 
Notes  the  sparrow  when  it  falls, 
Stands  with  reaching  arms,  and  calls  ! 
Whatsoe'er  thy  bosom  crave, 
If  it  profit  thee  to  have. 
He  will  grant,   in  whole  or  part, 
To  thy  fervent-asking  heart. 

Hast  thou  ills  of  any  kind. 
Weighing  heavy  on  thy  mind  ? 
Rankles  trouble's  poisoned  dart, 
Painful,  in  thy  fevered  heart  ? 
Come,  for  no  one  else  can  be 
Loving,   merciful,   as  He. 
Thou  hast  need  to  try  His  skill. 
For  He  cureth  every  ill. 
117 


IN    PACE. 


I. 


WHERE  the  yew  and  the  rosemary  darkle, 
Come  mourn  for  a  clay-cold  maid, 
Whose  eyes  are  forlorn  of  their  sparkle, 
The  rose  of  whose  cheek  is  decayed. 

II. 

Though  the  fragrance  is  rife  in  the  clover, 
And  the  leafage  is  green  on  the  tree, 

The  maiden  shall  tryst  with  her  lover, 
No  more  on  the  flower-deck'd  lea. 

III. 

No  more  by  the  rivulet  stilly. 

In  the  tranquil  and  cool  evening  air. 

Shall  she  cull  the  white  stars  of  the  lily. 
To  twine  in  the  night  of  her  hair. 

ii8 


In  Pace. 

IV. 

In  vain  shall  he  wait  her  who  dearly 
In  his  bosom  her  image  enshrined, 

When  the  calm  evening  star,  rising  early, 
Recalls  her  mild  eyes  to  his  mind. 


Perchance  the  gray  dawn  may  deceive  him, 
May  picture  her  face  in  his  dreams, 

But  the  Hght  of  the  morn  will  bereave  him, 
Dispelling  his  bliss  with  its  beams. 

VI. 

But  maiden,  thy  halcyon  slumber 
Shall  rosy  with  peacefulness  be ; 

No  sorrow  thy  heart  may  encumber. 
Asleep,  'neath  the  evergreen  tree. 


119 


THE  TEMPEST. 

GATHERING  forth  his  raging  legions, 
Soon  the  tempest  will  appear; 
Screaming  petrels  and  sea  pigeons, 
Circling,  bode  disaster  near. 

Brawny  seamen,  whom  the  demon 
Storm  has  never  brought  dismay, 

Soon  may  fashion  prayers  from  ashen 
Lips  that  never  knew  to  pray. 

Eyes  that  unto  fear  were  strangers, 

Hopeless  soon  to  heaven  may  glance ; 

Eyes  that  meeting  former  dangers, 
Stared  them  out  of  countenance. 

Hark!    the  distant,  sullen  thunder 
Sounds  upon  the  Tempest's  horn ; 

Many  a  heart  must  perish  under 
Salt-sea  waves  before  the  morn. 


1 20 


MSOF   ON    THE   FROG. 

MEN  have  not  liked  you,  and  your  mean  estate, 
Sunk  to  the  lowest  in  the  downward  scale. 
Is  now  the  butt  of  ridicule  and  hate ; 

While  they,  forsooth,  within  their  social  pale, 
Count  fellow-creatures,  puffed  with  pride  as  great, 
Who  croak  more  loudly,  and  to  less  avail. 


121 


ALETTE. 

ALAS,  for  my  sad  heart,   Alette; 
i.  That  on  the  lilied  lea  we  met. 
What  time  the  flowerets,  gleaming  bright. 
With  dewdrops  in  the  fading  light, 

Each  lifted  up  its  fairy  cup, 
Unto  the  dripping  night. 

Faint  shone  the  pearly  moon,   Alette ; 
The  moist  stars  glowed  like  berries  set 
Amid  a  spray  oi  withered  vine; 
Out-oozed  the  Night-god's  lethal  wine ; 

And  balmy  sleep,  when  earth  quaffed  deep. 
Stole  through  j:he  thin  moonshine. 

I  raised  my  eager  eyes.   Alette, 
The  fragrant  flowers  glistened  wet ; 
I  heard  thy  footfalls  on  the  lea, 
Coming  amid  the  dews  to  me  ; 

And  that  still  night,  a  shower  of  light, 
My  soul  went  out  to  thee. 

122 


Alette. 

Thou  wouldst  not  hear  my  words,  Alette ; 
But  badst  me  thy  sweet  face  forget. 
Ah  !  nevermore  at  eventide 
Shall  rest  in  my  sad  heart  abide, 

Though  night  benign  with  lethal  wine, 
Pledge  peace  to  all  beside. 

I  sigh,  and  pine  away,  Alette ; 
And  when  my  star  of  life  is  set, 
My  shade  shall  haunt,  a  weary  ghost, 
The  flowery  lea  where  love  was  crossed, 
And  hopes  that  burst  in  blossom  first 
Were  earliest  to  be  lost. 


123 


THE   UNREALIZED. 

THERE'S  many  a  branch  with  flowers  fair 
Gives  promise  of  a  fruitful  Fall, 
That  soon  will  be  as  stript  and  bare, 
As  if  it  ne'er  had  bloomed  at  all. 

And  many  a  hope,  which  blossoms  now 
Around  the  Heart,  will  soon  decay, 

Leaving  it  barren  as  the  bough 

From  which  the  flowers  have  dropped  away. 

Alas,  that  e'er  the  Heart  should  take 
Delight  in  things  that  can  not  be  ; 

Or  that  the  ruthless  wind  should  shake 
The  cherished  blossoms  from  the  tree. 


124 


THE  LANDING  AT  SAN  SALVADOR. 

WHEN  after  many  a  weary  day 
No  sign  of  welcoming  shore  appeared, 
And  hope  to  trembHng  fear  gave  way, 

As  still  through  endless  seas  they  steered; 
The  spirit  of  that  faltering  crew. 

In  terror  and  distrust  was  shown. 
Whose  eyes  were  favored  soon  to  view 
The  coast-line  of  a  world  unknown. 

Sweet  beckoning  memories  of  Spain, 

Of  fair  Cordova's  fanes  and  towers  ; 
Palos,  for  which  they  pined  again, 

And  Seville  with  its  streets  of  flowers, 
Thronged,  as  to  win  them  to  retrace 

Their  voyage  homeward  o'er  the  seas. 
Nor  follow  as  a  fruitless  chase 

The  mad  scheme  of  the  Genoese. 

What  manner  of  misguided  man 

Is  he  who  thus  supplants  alone 
Opinions  since  the  world  began 

With  f angled  notions  of  his  own? 

125 


The  Landing  at  San  Salvador, 

To  them  his  tenets  were  accursed; 

They  heard  them  as  an  idle  tale, 
Nor  deemed  the  folly  which  he  nursed 

Would  soon  a  continent  unveil. 

Still  sterner  grew  their  olive  brows 

With  scowls  they  illy  could  disguise, 
And  passions,   dangerous  to  arouse, 

Looked  deadly  in  their  Spanish  eyes  ; 
Till  all  at  once   above  the  crest 

Of  weary  waters  which  they  scanned. 
Like  some  sweet  Island  of  the  Blest, 

Soft  dawned  the  welcome  sight  of  land. 

With  what  rejoicing  then  they  wreathed 

With  coronal  of  vine  and  flower, 
The  brows  of  him  who  thus  bequeathed 

To  Freedom  an  immortal  dower ! 
Fit  garland  to  requite  his  toil, 

Full  fruited,   when,  with  fervent  zeal, 
He  planted  in  Columbia's  soil 

The  standard  of  his  loved  Castile. 


126 


NOTE. 

Thanks  are  due  to  the  Century  Magazine  and  the 
Cosmopolitan  for  permission  to  reprint  the  sonnets 
"Colonial"  and  "Tyranny." 


YftOS2322 


